Faith & Fidelity
by NekoMushi
Summary: Arthur was adamant to abandon all of his Catholic preachings upon arriving at boarding school, regardless of whether his parents liked it or not. However, he soon learns that old habits die hard when a familiar American shows up and introduces him to homosexuality. That couldn't be orthodox! Men just weren't supposed to love other men...right? Warning: religion, slight homophobia.
1. Chapter 1

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**CHAPTER I**

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**Part I**

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The distant hum of giant, metallic birds vibrated through the air, a low monotone to the sounds of various shoes squeaking and clacking on the floor. An amalgam of different voices filled the air; people chatting aimlessly to one another, others whistling to music pounding from the earphones shoved in their ears and some just muttering to themselves as they worriedly checked their watch again and rushed to catch their flight. Of course, only one such place could hold all of these sounds at the same time. The airport.

Through the large glass windows, the air fields seemed to stretch forever, meadows of freshly clipped grass, billowing orange tents on sticks and long runways. The ground shook slightly as yet another plane touched down, its wheels scraping the tarmac and creating a haze of steam. Slowly, ever so slowly, it skidded to halt before the doors slid open and the passengers held within started to exit, some with assistance from one of the air hostesses. Within the mass of people gathered outside _Gate 19B, _an average teen watched with bored fascination as the figures started towards the terminal, dragging hand luggage along with them. He'd be boarding a plane like that in less than half an hour, even though he really didn't want to.

"Do we have to go, Dad?" he murmured in a half-hearted attempt to convince his stubborn father to stay in New York, the place where he'd lived for just over sixteen years. Despite the whine mingled within his voice, the answer was exactly the same as last time.

"Yes. I've _told _you Alfred. We have no money, so we _have _to live with your grandparents in England for a while."

Alfred sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his baggy hoodie; he didn't mind moving and going to live with his grandparents. Truth be told, he'd never really met them before considering they lived so far away. That and there had been a little argument before his dad had moved to America in the first place, which was probably why their relationship wasn't so good. Anyway, Alfred wasn't fussed about moving to England – they spoke the same language there, so it wouldn't exactly be difficult to fit in or anything. It was more of the whole "splitting up" part that he wasn't so keen on.

Alfred's brother, Matthew, and their mum wouldn't be moving to England with them. Instead, they'd be going to live with their_ other_ grandparents in France. You see, Matthew and Alfred's parents had divorced about four months ago, and after realizing that they had literally no money between them at all, they figured that they would have to move back to their birthplace to sort their lives out and move on. Obviously, the catch was that they had children, and twins at that. Since neither of them could decide whom the brothers would stay with, they'd taken the "easy" (most strenuous) option and decided to split them up. Because Matthew was already half-fluent in French thanks to his mother's determined teaching, clearly he'd be a better candidate for living in Bordeaux, whilst Alfred would be stuck in a country bungalow in Somerset. Perfect.

Despite the fact that Alfred knew his father loved him very much, he still couldn't shake the feeling that he'd much rather be moving with Matthew. It'd always been that way in the Jones' household; their parents had already been working class, having met in university and deciding to get married and have kids ridiculously young, so they'd always, always, always had to work twice as hard for half the pay. That was just the way it was – I suppose you can't really do much when you drop out of law school to take classes in art instead. The couple, after moving to America (their parents hadn't been pleased with that choice and it was why their bond was somewhat strained), had come to the conclusion that they only had enough money to support themselves and possibly _one _child, if they took up a couple of part-time jobs and saved up for a while.

However, everything had gone spiralling out of control when, just two months before the birth was due, Alfred and Matthew's mother had been told she was having twins. This turned their life upside-down for the worse. Their father, after rushing out and spending the rest of their savings and hard-earned cash on more stuff for the second twin (a new cot, more clothes, a new teddy etc.) had realized just how horribly poor the rapidly growing family was and before he knew it, he was unemployed and in serious debt. Even though they'd been struggling to survive from the very beginning without getting kicked out of their rented flat by a crazy landlord, it had taken the couple fourteen years to admit their mistakes. The first fault was that they'd been too young and all of the added stress had really taken its toll on their relationship and, after years of arguing, bickering and shouting, a divorce was registered and they were no longer "Mr and Mrs Jones" but "Mr Jones" and "Ms Williams."

Their second fault had been their stupendous move all of the way from their humble house in Dorset to the apartment in Manhattan, New York. Luckily, parents can be very forgiving and following many late-night phone calls, exhausted apologies and nervous breakdowns, the new living arrangements had been decided. There would be no going back. No regrets. That was just the way things were.

Alfred knew that he was the less-loved child from day one. He'd been treated like an outsider, the cause of their problems, the reason for their arguments and the bane of their life altogether. If he'd never been born, his parents wouldn't have run out of money so quick funding his extra language tutoring. If he'd never been born, they wouldn't have had to buy so much food and crap for him to eat when he threw a tantrum. If he'd never been born, they wouldn't have had to move. _If he'd never been born… _

The list was endless and no matter how many times Matthew would say otherwise, Alfred knew deep-down that it was his entire fault that they were in this mess. Sometimes, all he wanted to do was break down and cry but he could never lose face so easily like that. He remembered a time when he was a vibrant, giggling child and he wanted nothing more than to fly through the sky and be known all around as a hero. The word "hero" was like music to his ears; sweet, blissful and everything he'd ever dreamed of. But, how could he be a hero when he'd ripped his own family apart? What kind of monstrous hero did that? He was more like a villain really.

Alfred had always been somewhat starved of parental love. He'd seen the way his mother would cuddle Matthew when he cried at night because of a nightmare and how his father would hold him high on his shoulders for the world to see. Alfred had never received any of that as a toddler (well…he had, but there had been considerably less loving words and considerably more irritated groans) – all he ever got was indifferent stares and "have you done your homework?" or "I hope you didn't get in trouble again today." Nonetheless, he adamantly refused to let their (lack of) words affect him and kept grinning in the face of insignificance, daring it to aim another blow or swing another punch. He could take it. He was a hero after all.

As he'd grown older, he'd drifted further and further apart from his parents. When he'd started middle school, it had only ever gotten worse. Unlike Matthew, Alfred's literacy skills had been poor thanks to his dyslexia and he'd been in the lowest set for almost everything. Everything except Physics, Mathematics and Physical Education, but his parents had never seemed to care. It was stupid really – if it hadn't been for how certain words would jumble themselves in his mind, and his difficulty in putting a sentence together, Alfred would've sky-rocketed in school. However, everyone treated him like a complete idiot, just because he read slower and had to stare harder at words before pronouncing them. Life could be so cruel sometimes. In his parents' poisoned vision, Matthew was the golden child and Alfred would always be second best. It seriously hadn't helped when he'd finally come clean about his sexuality.

Alfred, after having his first girlfriend in 7th Grade, had found out that he was more attracted to men than women. In fact, he was hardly attracted to women at all! Their relationship obviously hadn't lasted but he'd learnt something about himself in the process. Yes, he was gay. After a year of hiding behind a fake mask, Alfred had finally had "the talk" with his parents about his feelings. It hadn't gone very well – he hadn't really expected it to in the first place. Thankfully, they didn't reject him entirely. Unfortunately, they didn't accept him either and thus the father-mother-son bond had stretched itself even more.

"_Departure from Gate 19B to Heathrow Airport in five minutes…"_

The loud voice drawled over the loud-speaker, causing a few people to shift uncomfortably in their seats and wrenching Alfred from his thoughts. Air police patrolled the gate, eyeing a few people uncertainly. There was no doubt that the security in Heathrow would be just as bad, if not worse than the security in America. After all, this would be an external flight so they'd have to be as careful and sensible as possible whilst going through customs. The people who stood at the double doors started to jerk them open before plastering creepy smiles on their maws and waiting for the travellers to start queuing up. Alfred watched as the flurry of passengers formed an uneven line. Since he would be sitting at the front of second class, he'd be one of the last to board along with his father, so he waited – the fact that he would have to wait a while would also give him an opportunity to say his final farewells to his twin brother. Matthew's flight to Paris would be later, probably in about two hours, so he'd have some time to kill when Alfred left.

"So, I guess this is it, huh…" the older of the twins murmured sadly, frowning as he readjusted his orb-shaped glasses. Although Matthew and Alfred looked very alike (they're twins, duh) there were subtle differences etched into their appearance such as Matthew's longer, wavy hair and the soft lilac hue to his deeper blue eyes, and how, despite being a few minutes older, he was slightly shorter and had a smaller, leaner build. And of course you can't forget how their personalities would be utterly unique too. Even though their parents had clearly favourite Matthew over Alfred, their bond was strong and unwavering; they'd been inseparable from the second they'd seen each other. Yet now the unthinkable was happening and it was tearing both of them apart.

"Yeah…"

Although Alfred didn't want to express the hurt and uncertainty in his voice, and he definitely didn't want his twin to see the hot tears that were welling up behind his eyes and threatening to pour down his cheeks at any moment, he couldn't hide that he was breaking inside. If he said anymore, he was terrified that he'd just collapse on the floor right there and then and start sobbing his heart out. But he couldn't do that. He had to be brave. _Get a hold of yourself._

"But," Alfred continued light-heartedly, sniffing softly as an excuse to wipe his nose and subtly dry the corners of his eyes too. "We'll see each other again soon. Ya' know, at boarding school."

Matthew stopped frowning and brightened up almost instantly at this remark. "Oh yeah!"

As a way to keep the two twins from drifting too far apart (that and the fact that Matthew had been extremely upset to the point that he'd started to weep knowing that he would probably only see Alfred on rare occasions – nobody is immune to the older twin's tears) the parents had arranged for them to attend a boarding school that had been recently set up in Yorkshire. Considering it was so new, the prices had been surprisingly low and it was one of the only good quality schools they could actually afford. _Hetalia Cross College. _

The name was a bit…well, odd but it was better than nothing. From what Alfred had seen whilst he'd been studying the website it was actually quite good with a range of after school activities and clubs set up by the pupils themselves. He wasn't quite sure, though, why it was called a "college" rather than a "high school." Since it offered boarding to pupils from ages 11-18, it was kind of like a mix between middle and high school, from 6th Grade to 12th Grade. Nonetheless, it was still called a "college" which didn't make sense, but Alfred wasn't one to complain. He was just glad he'd be able to see Matthew, even if it meant he'd have to wait a month.

"_Departure from Gate 19B to Heathrow Airport…"_

"You should probably go," Matthew muttered after a long pause, gesturing weakly to the rapidly declining queue shuffling through the tube that led to the aircraft. Despite his father signalling for him to follow, Alfred stayed rooted to the spot, his muscles profoundly rebelling to move. Perhaps it was because he didn't _want _to move. He didn't want to leave Matthew…not yet at least. When he turned his gaze back to said brother, the older twin was chewing his lower lip and the first hints of tears were pricking his eyes adding a glossy shine to the surface of his iris. The very sight made Alfred want to bury his face into Matthew's jacket and cry himself, but he gritted his teeth and just reached forwards for a bear-hug, grasping the smaller teen tightly and wanting nothing more than to never let go.

After a moment's hesitation, Matthew complied and wrapped his arms around Alfred's shoulders, starting to shake as weak sobs wracked through his body, muffled by the younger's baggy Superman hoodie. Although the moment was short, it etched itself in both of the brothers' minds for eternity and (with immense unwillingness) they broke apart, Matthew sniffling and hiccupping violently every now and then. Alfred, knowing that his heart would never survive hugging him again, just attempted to smile softly and laid a hand on his shoulder. The grin was sad and broken; it was painfully obvious how fake it was but Alfred didn't care. He'd keep smiling for infinity if he had to.

"See ya' 'round, Mattie."

And with that, Alfred was gone, following his father onto the plane that would carry him across the ocean to England. The last that Matthew saw of him before he boarded the flight was the teen stopping and raising a clenched fist up to the sky. Matthew sighed and rolled his eyes when Alfred turned and fixed him with a mischievous grin despite the circumstances. His younger brother had always liked striking that pose because it resembled the Statue of Liberty so much. Following a sharp call from his father, Alfred had rushed out of view and into the belly of the metal bird.

"Where do we sit?" Alfred asked whilst trying to look over his father's shoulder at the plane tickets.

"There," was the answer along with a vague motion towards two empty seats by a window. It was a three seat row yet the extra seat was empty presumably because nobody liked to sit at the front of aeroplanes. Alfred took the window chair almost instantly – even if there would be nothing to look at but a sea of clouds, he would need _something_ to look at for the seven hour flight. Thanks to the three hour time difference between the east coast of America and Britain, the plane was scheduled to arrive at midnight, even though they were supposed to be setting off at 2:00pm. Alfred quickly checked his digital watch; it was already 2:10pm, but miniature delays were expected.

Once he'd gotten settled, strapping himself in and finding a relatively comfortable position, he started to zone out as the voice on the loud speaker started to belay what to do in the unlikely event of an emergency and stared aimlessly across the air fields. Eventually, after the hostesses demonstrating how to use a life vest had left through the curtain to attain the first classes' needs, the plan started to move. The progress was slow at first, the gigantic wad of metal dragging itself sluggishly across the tarmac, yet it gradually sped up and a low roaring sound filled the cabin as the engines flared into action. Soon enough, the plane was racing across the ground, barely touching the floor before an unfamiliar lurching feeling signalled that they were airborne.

Alfred wasn't used to travelling on planes – it was only on a rare occasion that the family had managed to save up enough money to go somewhere on holiday and it had always been an internal flight to some other state. The feeling was exhilarating, enough to make his heart pump twice as fast and increase the rate of his breathing; before he could stop himself, Alfred's face was pressed up against the miniscule window, crushed against the cold glass and he was eyeing the disappearing city with wonderment and awe, being replaced by nothing but ocean blue and then, wisps of silvery clouds. After about a half hour, there was nothing left but whiteness as far as the eye could see.

By this time, the voice over in the aircraft had muttered something about "being allowed to move freely about the cabin" and Alfred had sunk back into his chair, intent on a video game he was playing. It was just an ordinary Nintendo DS, supposedly "old-fashioned" and from "at least three years ago." Nonetheless, Alfred had been chuffed when he'd managed to save up enough money to buy said game console and hardly ever stopped playing on it. Eyes entranced with the pixelated game as his fingers danced across the controls with expert precision, he sighed irately as his character, a small blue crocodile, fainted for the fifth time. He ended up back at the very start of the dungeon that he'd been traversing, and hurriedly snapped shut the console, frustration evident on his face. Now bored, the teen sighed and fished around in his hand luggage for something of interest.

He hadn't really brought much in his rucksack (there wasn't much to bring), but he rootled around until his hands brushed against a thick handbook on aliens called "_Extra-terrestrial_" and started to immerse himself with the columns mentioning UFO sightings and philosophical questions about whether there really was life in outer-space. Physics had always fascinated Alfred, and he thoroughly enjoyed the sections that included the Laws of Space and Time or how the universe was constantly expanding and the long, detailed explanations about "dark matter." More than anything, he wanted to learn, to create, to invent. To find out how things worked. What made them tick and how and why.

Sure, reading all of the long, complex words was a challenge, but Alfred liked challenges. He paused and furrowed his eyebrows at an especially complicated word that he hadn't come across before. After five solid minutes of thinking and repeating the sounds over and over on his tongue, he got it: "_hygrometric_." After pondering on its meaning and quickly flicking to the index of the back of the book, Alfred grinned, satisfied with himself. He thought of sharing his achievement with his dad…but he probably just be shrugged off, as usual.

Unfortunately, the fascinating facts on alleged Martians had already been read multiple times by Alfred, so there was little much to learn from the handbook and he eventually shoved it back into the confines of his rucksack. To his dismay, only an hour and a half had passed since they'd taken off, even though it felt like a day had already gone by. With nothing much more to do (other than pester his father but that certainly wouldn't help Alfred's current situation at all) the teen started to stare out of the window, letting his mind wander.

_Matthew will probably be departing for Paris soon. Heck, he's probably already on the aeroplane waiting to leave._ Alfred scowled sadly – he already missed him. _You'll see him again soon. _Probably the only good thing about this move was that Alfred would be moving schools. His previous school had been a literal crap shack and the kids there had been awful. Not that they'd ever really bothered Alfred much; it was more Matthew who'd been their punch bag and victim for verbal assaults. Of course, _that _had changed almost immediately after he'd confronted the wrong-doers and knocked them into shape "heroically." Matthew had never been bothered by those likes ever again. Either way, Alfred was still mildly pleased he wouldn't have to put up with suicidal teachers who felt the need to pour out all of their problems in the middle of a graded examination or bitch about ex-boyfriends, or homophobes hurling petty insults through the corridor whenever he walked by (his confession had spread like wildfire through the school and before he knew it, Alfred was no longer the hot-shot on the football _and _baseball team, but he was ridiculed and excluded from everyday activities, even by his so-called "best friends.") Alfred made a mental note to keep that part of himself secret until he felt he could trust his peers.

Had he stayed in said awful school, he'd have been going into 11th Grade, but instead, the British curriculum stated he'd be starting Sixth Form. _What the hell is Sixth Form anyway? _Whatever it was, it sounded cool but Alfred still felt like they'd mucked up his grade or "year" as they called it. They insisted he'd be put into Year 12, but that was a year above where he actually was. At first, he'd assumed they'd simply made a mistake (considering he wouldn't actually be intelligent enough to skip a year of school and apparently, no matter how smart or dumb you were, people didn't skip years nor were they held back a year in Britain), but then he learnt that the system across the pond was somewhat different to what he was used to – for example, there were no tests at the end of the year that would determine whether you were held back or not and a majority of schools actually had _uniforms_. Usually, uniforms were only worn by the posh snobs who were unfortunate enough to attend private schools.  
Thanks to the big move, he was missing the last few days of the God-forsaken school.

Normally in the US, once you were finished with high school, you'd apply for university. They'd check the scores on your SATs or whatever tests (since you could take them at any time during high school) and decide whether or not you were qualified. After that, it was just simple – get a diploma, get a job and move on with life. However, in Britain, it was totally different. Alfred realized that instead of going to an actual college (not some middle/high school posing as a college), he'd be taking _more_ difficult tests with weird subjects _that his parents had chosen for him.  
_Physics; Alfred greatly appreciated the fact they'd allowed him to take Physics at least. He was _good _at Physics and it was an enjoyable subject to him, even if his old teacher had been a little bit crazy.  
Physical Education; considering his activeness in the many sport clubs inside and outside of school, this was, again, a smart choice. He could deal with the practical and the theory – all he had to do was answer a couple of questions about sport, right? Easy.  
Mathematics; sometimes boring, yet surprisingly intriguing in its own unique way, as Alfred found it. Some subjects that they covered were extremely difficult, but he'd always had a deep fondness for Maths – numbers just seemed to be his friends. Although he was labelled as a typical "jock" back in America, Maths was one of the few academic subjects that he excelled in. Certainly, he didn't seem like he'd be much good at algebra or fractions or cumulative frequency (plus more fancy mathematical terms), but he definitely was and an A-level in Maths would pay off in the future.  
And the crowning glory - English Literature; This was just pure ignorance on his parents' behalf to his reading disability. What good would this course be if he couldn't even _read _the God-damn books that they'd be studying? It was almost like tying a blindfold around a blind person's eyes. Completely and utterly pointless with no benefit whatsoever apart from humiliating the person further.

"Any snacks or beverages?"

Alfred jumped slightly as a tall woman clad in the usual air hostess uniform asked what they would like from the metal trolley she was pushing. Layered high with sweet treats and fizzy drinks, he instantly asked for a can of Coke and some Ready Salted crisps and tucked in heartily to the miniature meal. His father accepted a cup of steaming coffee and the duo made idle chat as they enjoyed their grub. Well, it wouldn't exactly be called "idle" considering they spoke animatedly for the next hour – Alfred enjoyed these one-on-one conversations with his dad. Unlike his mother and brother, they were both boisterous with their speech and actions and loved the sounds of their own voices greatly – enough to blabber on about the most random topics non-stop. It trailed to a halt as the sky outside started to darken. Surprised, Alfred checked his watch – apparently, it was only 5:00, yet the sun was already casting radiant beams of amber in across his vision and stars had begun to dot the horizon, clear and sparkling and unmasked by any clouds.

After a moment of brief confusion, interrupted by the obnoxious snores of someone seated at the back of the aeroplane, Alfred reminded himself of the time difference. It felt strange. They _were _going forward in time, after all, which was an intriguing feat. With a vexed sigh, his began poking around in his backpack of wonders, hoping something entertaining would spring up out of nowhere and ease his boredom. After locating a bunch of old comics he'd transferred from his suitcase to his hand luggage last minute, he wrenched out a couple of the "_Captain America_" and "_Spiderman"_ cartoons and started to read avidly, despite the fact that he'd read them hundreds of times before. Skimming through the first pages, his reactions were exactly the same from the first time he'd seen them about two years ago when the issues had first come out (each copy had been about $1 which was all Alfred could afford in his earlier high school years) except less exaggerated and without the vocal "oohs" and "ahs!" every few seconds.

Soon, though, after reaching the end of all the available comic books he had, Alfred was bored again. There was nothing really to think about, other than what type of place England might be like when he arrived. He wasn't particularly looking forward to the overly-posh accents and dialects, nor did he feel like he'd enjoy the apparently terrible food. According to his father, there was never enough salt on British food and it'd be almost guaranteed to destroy his taste buds and numb his lips. Alfred didn't care though – as long as there was some kind of fast food chain, he'd be perfectly fine. Besides, his father had promised he'd teach him to drive soon, which was something he'd been waiting to learn since he'd been fourteen years old.

Alfred had always wanted to know what it felt like to sit at the front of a car and control its movements. All of his friends had learned before him thanks to their birthdays being earlier, but he was determined to learn how to drive no matter what and he'd forced his dad to pinkie swear at least seven times that he'd teach him once his sixteenth birthday came. And now he was sixteen. In fact, Alfred and Matthew's birthday had only been about a week ago, so he was eager to being his lessons once they arrived in England. Sure, his father couldn't bring their car with them, but he'd already managed to sort out the mortgage and pricing so that his grandparents' car (which they hardly ever used any more) would belong to him from now on and he was licensed to drive it. Apparently, his dad hadn't actually needed to arrange any paperwork anyway since he was already allowed to drive it in the first place (when he'd been taught how to drive in England years and years ago, he'd been registered to his parent's car anyway, so it was practically his own. He'd just left it there for safe-keeping and they hadn't had the heart to get rid of it).

That was one thing Alfred would be looking forward to on his arrival in Britain, along with nothing else. Apart from the new school. Duh. With nothing to let his mind wander to, he focused on the array of stars in the night sky, glittering coldly in the sun's dying light that tinted the clouds with a soft, pinkish hue. The steady rumble of the engines deep within the bowls of the aircraft mingled with the strangely beautiful sight, Alfred's eyelids started to feel incredibly heavy along with his head, which was already starting to tip forwards. Before he could even begin to count sheep, he was breathing heavily and emitting a low snore every time his chest heaved.

In other words, he was asleep.

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**A/N:**

_Here's a story I've been working on since October with a few friends of mine. You could probably count it as a collaboration, but finally I've decided to upload it. I finished this chapter sometime around late April, and I've been dying to post it. Just so you know, this isn't all of chapter one. Chapter one is split into five parts because it's too long (over 40 pages!). I apologize for that, but at least I have something prewritten, right?  
The plot of this story features Catholic!Arthur, who's half-and-half punk. I tried to incorporate a lot of different themes into this, like teenage rebelliousness, moving house, feeling inadequate etc. so it kinda counts as angst as well as drama. It should get more interesting as I post more parts to chapter one.  
It's based in Britain because I live there and I'm more comfortable with using my home country as a setting. That, and I'm more familiar with my own education system. I have no idea what the American system is like, so I've probably got something wrong. If I have, please tell me and I'll modify it!_

_Thank you very much for reading and hope that you will leave a review! Please? I _love _getting reviews. They make me feel special and help me to improve! Please, even if it's just to share thoughts (even if they're negative) or point out mistakes, all reviews are welcome!_

20-07-2013 edit: Because I'm fickle and incredibly indecisive I changed the name of the boarding school. Now, instead of it being called "Gakuen Hetalia College", I've called it "Hetalia Cross College." I'm not entirely sure why I used "cross." I guess I was just thinking of King's Cross Station or something. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia – Axis Power/World Series/The Beautiful World._

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**Part II**

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The bus groaned to a halt in its usual place, next to the country lane that the last students would often walk down together. In the cold, harsh winter, the towering trees were ebony and leafless, reaching entangled limbs and fingers towards the quickly blackening sky. However, during summertime – the current season – it provided a blissful, after school walk winding through forests and fields back to their house. Rural countryside was all that lay between the final four children and home. The doors slid open, allowing them to clamber down the steps and begin on their way through the woods, full of chirping birds singing in harmony with each other.

The eldest (eighteen years old), fair-haired, lean and harbouring a somewhat distant glaze to his eyes, loosely clutched the hand of the youngest (nine years old), a silent reprimand for him to stay close and not run off. Ungracefully thin and tall, lanky as some would call it, he walked down the well-trodden path, seemingly in disdain to hold the hand of his little brother – nonetheless, he did it wordlessly and simply ignored the mindless blabber flying from said youngster's mouth about school and church and mass. The second youngest (thirteen years old) walked at the front of the quadruple, flaming hair that looked like it had been trimmed neatly once upon a time now messy and choppy, maintaining a purposeful gait as he adjusted his white shirt underneath his dark green woollen vest, un-tucking it from his trousers despite his parent's annoyance at such acts. His heavily freckled face, complimenting his pale complexion, was twisted into a light scowl as he played with strands of his bright crimson hair, twirling it mindlessly around his fingers and frowning when it dangled in front of his eyes even though he was trying to sweep it behind his ears. And the second oldest (sixteen years old) – probably the most reclusive of the bunch, he trailed behind all of them, his expression a perpetual glower regardless of the lovely weather as he thrummed the tips of his fingers on the leather satchel strung across his shoulder, in time with his pace. A light breeze tugged lightly on his unruly hair, muttering through his blazer and flicking a few flower petals in his face. Trifling exasperation spread across his features as he flattened his hair and brushed the plants from his few, swatting them away into the air where they twirled elegantly before settling on the country path again.

They continued through the woods, beams of sunlight dappling the forest floor and teasing the colours of the brothers' hair, until the trees ended and all that remained were meadows after meadows after meadows and random shapes scattered across the hills. One in particular, a large manor, sat upon the crest of a hill as it waited for the boys to return home. Eventually, after crossing fields with minimal conversation, save the youngest's wandering mouth and some half-hearted bickering, they were walking up the driveway to the magnificent, monstrous manor house. Dating back through many generations, the house had been owned by the Kirkland family way back in the Elizabethan era, explaining the ancient aura emitted from the rugged, mossy stones and the old-fashioned décor inside. Oh, and the various family portraits lining the walls on the landing too. Each face, although varying and unique, all seemed to share the same brutally exaggerated feature; impossibly thick eyebrows, resembling dense bushes situated on the forehead – even the youngest members of the Kirkland family had inherited such unfortunate facial blemishes.

Dylan, who had let go of the littlest brother's (Peter's) hand once they'd emerged from the fields onto the driveway connecting to the main road, knew the door would always be open and therefore didn't bother to fish his house keys from his school bag and continued into the spacious entrance after he'd removed his shoes in the porch. Connor follow suit, but instead of turning left into the dining and sitting room like his older brother, the red-haired thirteen-year-old continued past the staircase, across the lower hall and into the drawing room where he dumped his bag and immediately started on late homework that his teacher had scolded him harshly for. The marks from the punishment he'd received were still blistering in his ears, the harsh remarks about "sloppy work" and "incompetence" now like sweet music that he heard every day. St Busby's Catholic School was adamant to keep the older, stricter tones of the Victorian education around. Although the level of teaching had changed drastically, the punishments hadn't (apart from the beatings, of course. That was illegal).

Connor, being a somewhat rebel in and outside the classroom, was prone to such penalties and the teachers were always quick to scold him. It was wonder he hadn't turned on his own parents for encouraging such consequences, but even he knew better than to go against their strong faith. Both being austere Catholics who believed that the teachings of the church should be passed down to every one of their six children, they disapproved entirely of the smallest things. The seven sacraments were to be performed wherever and whenever necessary, grace was to be uttered before each meal, church was to be attended every Sunday morning, friends and acquaintances were to be of Christian faith and Christian faith only etc. Of course, in such an ascetic environment, at least one child was going to be wayward and insubordinate, stubborn, unmanageable and defiant. Strangely, these words reflected on every Kirkland child in at least some way, even those who were not children anymore, such as Cillian (attending his last year of university in Ireland where he was studying Celtic history) and Allistor (attending his second year of university in Edinburgh, Scotland). Obviously, Dylan was no longer a child either but he waited patiently for the last day of school to come, comfortable with his A-level results.

He expected to go to the Welsh College of Music and Drama in Cardiff where he could settle into a course focused around the Performing Arts, yet his parents utterly and profoundly refused to fund it. They did not approve of him going to study the aspects of stage life and there had been many, many arguments about it. Despite his teachers saying otherwise and his calm demeanour (even though in such situations, he wanted nothing more than to let his blood boil and yell in their faces), his parents remained firm-footed, dissatisfaction at his chosen career path evident in their voices every single time. Nonetheless, he was determined to take action and would be willing to draw money from his own life savings if it came to that. Dylan was probably the most brutally stalwart of all the brothers.

Even Peter, young and innocent, had started to take after his older brothers' acts of insolence against their parents and their current school system. Although most "acts" were meagre and barely noticeable, he had started to pick up on the slight change, for example the subtle changes in tone when they were talking or how they would roll their eyes when nobody was looking. Luckily, he wasn't taking it too seriously, for he didn't quite understand their audacity just yet, however this would probably change when he started high school. St Busby's was one school altogether, but of course the campus was split in two – one campus served as a primary school for children in Reception – Year 6 (aged 4 – 11), whilst the other was the secondary school for Year 7 – Year 13 (aged 11 – 18). This was fairly easy for the brother's as they headed on their way home; Dylan would go to wait for Peter on the playground and they'd later meet up with Connor and Arthur who would usually be waiting for the bus home. Not that they'd ever say anything to each other or even acknowledge each other's presence as they waited.

Arthur was, by far, the worst of the siblings, despite his grades in school being immaculate, hence his fruitful GCSE results:  
English: **A* **(_compulsory – pass_)  
Mathematics: **A **(_compulsory – pass_)  
Biology: **A **(_compulsory – pass_)  
Chemistry: **A **(_compulsory – pass_)  
Physics: **A **(_compulsory – pass_)  
Religious Education and Philosophy: **A **(_compulsory – pass_)  
Ecclesiastical Latin: **A **(_compulsory – pass_)  
History: **A* **(_option – pass_)  
Geography: **A **(_option – pass_)  
Lower Level Law Studies: **A **(_option – pass_)  
Music: **A* **(_option – pass_)

Arthur had been relatively pleased with his results, happy that his long hours of revision had paid off. Yet, why he'd spent so long preparing for his examinations had been for one sole purpose only. To get away from his family. Sick and tired of the pointless pressure his parents would pile on top of his everyday schoolwork, day after day of mass, mass and more mass, Dylan's irately calm bickering and reasoning for _everything, _Cillian and Allistor's unexpected visits, Peter's non-stop questions and Connor's attitude, Arthur decided that he wanted to attend boarding school. Yes, boarding school – but, not just any random boarding school. A comparatively new boarding school that had just been set up in Yorkshire, North England named Hetalia Cross College had been his primary choice. With cheap prices (for a boarding school, anyway – it was still relatively expensive) that his parents could just about afford and allegedly professional and reliable service, it was the perfect getaway for Arthur to do his AS-levels in peace. Thankfully, they'd accepted his application form almost instantly, chuffed that someone with such high marks would be attending in its grand opening year. They'd been more than happy to accept him to join _next term, _just after the summer holidays and comply with the AS-levels he wanted to undergo as well; English Literature, English Language, History, Latin and Music.

Had Arthur stayed at St Busby's, he'd have been forced to take Divinity (a branch from Religious Education), Ecclesiastical Latin (again) or Ethic Studies for one of his AS's– whichever one suited him (he could take all three, but _that _would never have happened). He wouldn't have minded taking Ecclesiastical Latin, but considering it only ever focused around religious prayers and whatnot, it would only serve as a throbbing reminder of exactly what he'd wanted to escape. Not to mention it would be boring and only ever focus on Christianity.

It was fairly strange to take five AS levels, but not completely unheard of. He would probably end up dropping at least one subject when he moved onto his A-levels anyway, as he'd have no free time and he might not be able to cope under all of the stress. Then again, Arthur had survived up to this point, being the most coerced child out of all of his brothers because of his increasingly good grades. His parents treasured him, though not as a son; he was a tool to brag about, to take pride in, to encourage and brandish in the light and oh, he absolutely _loathed_ it. Every second of every day was spent studying and if he wasn't found pouring over notes he'd made in class, he'd be hassled into it anyway, whether he wanted to or not. There was never a break. Unlike his brothers who'd been harried only after starting secondary school, Arthur had been pressurised since he was old enough to read, to talk, to _walk_. Once his parents had found out he was "more intelligent than the average human his age", they'd never given him enough space to breathe let alone make his own decisions. He _had _to be the perfect child and if he wasn't…

Obviously, Arthur's siblings had grown to detest him because he was the favourite. His older brothers and even classmates used to hurl mildly unpleasant insults in his direction. This habit had eventually worn off, but the memories of "mother's boy" and "teacher's pet" still hounded his mind, burning by candlelight. Distancing himself from his "friends" (suitors that his parents forced upon him just because they worshipped the same god in the same ways) and siblings, he wanted nothing more but to get away from it all and set up a new life somewhere he'd never be found.

Of course, Arthur's orthodox parents had no idea about his darker, tainted life that he led after dark. Even after school, he'd rushed straight up to his room where he threw his bag on the floor and checked to make sure he'd been given no homework. It was rare that they were given any homework since it was the very last week of school, but he didn't trust the teachers to be that merciful any more. _Two more days 'til salvation_. Oh, but it would hardly be salvation. Arthur would have to endure six weeks of familial torture before he'd _finally _be free to go to boarding school and do whatever he wanted without someone breathing down his neck. Once he'd made sure there was nothing that was overdue, Arthur shrugged off his too-tight blazer - an ugly brown colour - slung it over the back of his chair and headed out into a thin hallway. He shared the little hallway with Dylan and, formerly, Allistor (when he'd still lived in the house). Both of their rooms echoed emptiness as he walked passed, evidence that there was no other soul near him. He'd always liked its position, his room; at the back of the house, almost in its own little sector with a dressing room and a bathroom all to himself (not quite, since there was still Dylan, but he'd be gone soon anyway). _And, _thanks to the little "hidden" corridor, he could sneak out through the large window and straight into the spindling limbs of an ancient oak tree without being spotted by his mother or father because it was at the back of the house! That is, granted that someone wasn't taking a stroll late at night, or that Dylan wouldn't tell. He'd never told before and Arthur knew that if he did have the guts to unveil his escape route, he could just counter-attack by showing them Dylan's alcohol and cigarettes store. Dylan didn't smoke much, but after Allistor had persuaded him to try it out, he would often be found around the back of the property late in the evening, puffing out silvery strands of fog from his mouth and nose.

Arthur clambered down, using the well-worn bark and footholds and landed on the grass floor, his hair a little more ruffled than usual. Summer in the southern part of England was always nice. It was never too hot, but never too cold. Warmth spread across the floor as Arthur expertly crept down one of the side paths and half-jumped, half climbed over the fence that led down towards the stables. The stables were also a rather old structure, nestled like a stone barn along the side of a wide, open paddock laden with rows of sweet smelling flowers. In fact, they may've been older than the actual house itself. The stables were Arthur's only sanctuary, holding six horses within roomy stalls. Every day after school, he'd rush up into the hayloft where he'd unearth many treasures that he'd hidden there long ago. One of these treasures was his guitar, second-hand and bought from a closing down charity shop.

Although Arthur would never have seemed like it, he held a secret passion for playing music. The ache for an instrument in his hands wasn't as strong as Dylan's (after all, Arthur doubted he'd want to follow his muse all of the way to university), but he still enjoyed every solitary moment he spent nuzzled in the hay, strumming sweet melodies. His mother, who often played the organ in church on Sundays, had taught him the basics of how to play the piano and cello, but after refusing Arthur's request to learn guitar, he'd taken matters into his own hands. After purchasing his pride and joy from a run-down shop, he'd spent hours muddling around with the strings and notes on the old mahogany piano in the drawing room until he'd reached the level he was today. As for his cello – he'd discarded that a while ago and it still rested in the bottom of wardrobe to this day. He only ever brought it out on rare occasions (mostly if he was forced to play a duet with one of his brothers or something God-awful like that), but it could never match up to the luscious whisper of a guitar at his fingertips. Although his mother encouraged musical activity, she only ever focused on hymns or traditional songs that were tedious to play and painful to hear – she didn't support studying music at university for some reason though (or rather, the Performing Arts as some acts were portrayed as "unorthodox" and "disgracefully inappropriate").

Cillian, being the eldest, had been the first of the brothers to be dragged into music – surprisingly, he hadn't been terrible at the piano as everyone had originally expected and his work on the violin was quite good too. Allistor had been a million degrees worse, hence why his mother had never strived to teach him a second instrument. Dylan had, obviously, excelled and had received tutoring at St Busby's for not only harp, but the lute and piccolo (he had an affinity for traditional folk instruments especially and sorely wished to learn more before he left for uni) and Arthur seemed to have followed suit at a slower and more refined pace. Connor was at the same level, if not better, than Cillian but only when he truly concentrated and put his heart to it. Although he constantly admitted his hatred for learning musical instruments, specifically the flute that his mother had been so adamant that he learn, Arthur would sometime hear him muttering a soft tune whenever he passed by his room. As for Peter – like Allistor, he was a lost cause, constantly bashing his small fingers outrageously on the notes of the piano, meaning that each sound produced was atrociously out of key and flat. Utterly deafening.

Arthur shoved open the door to the stables with his shoulder. Despite his small, delicate frame, he was actually stronger than he looked reinforced by his regular equestrian activities. A somewhat warm draft greeted his face along with excited nickering and shuffling, signalling that the horses who dwelled within the stalls were happy to see him. Thanks to Arthur ancestors, who'd managed to earn an immense fortune and buy the house, the family funds were more than able to keep the horses well-fed and accommodated. Yes, the Kirklands were a very rich family indeed, owning enough to pay for many generations to come. In fact, because of their great familial savings, Arthur's mother needn't work at all and acted as a housewife, cleaning the house and busying herself with chores and cooking. However, she hardly ever had to go down to the stables – her sons did all of the work down there, most often Arthur. Even though he knew his mother would inevitably be in the house, he didn't want to greet her. In fact, he wanted to _avoid _her and everybody else who was home. How he did this was to simply spend most of his time in the stables. Nobody ever came to look for him there.

After greeting each of the six horses (essentially one for each child, as per usual), Arthur replaced their water and feed and threw on their summer rugs. Unlike the thick, heavy cloaks that the horses were dressed in during winter, the summer cloths were thin and soft, like slender fleeces that hugged their fur. He spent the most time in his own horse's stall, Crumpet. Running his hand through her dense, dun-coloured fur, he relished the slow, hot breathes that trailed from her nostrils onto his hands. Crumpet was a sturdy little Exmoor pony, complete with the bedraggled mane flopping to one side of her forehead. Unlike most of her breed, her limbs were long and lanky, making her an adept jumper at the least and her hair was a lighter tone than her sandy fur, giving the impression that she was blonde. Heavily lidded eyes fixed her rider with a glazed look and she nibbled gently on the sleeve of his shirt, forcing a rare smile to stretch upon Arthur's maw.

It may have seemed a bit sad, that these creatures were his only friends, but he didn't care much for the snobs that walked around St Busby's. They were all boring to talk to, their heads stuck too far up their own asses for their own goods. Then again, just because Arthur spent most of his waking hours at home grooming and tending to the six horses in the stables did not mean that his social life was miserably undeveloped. No. He _did _have friends, as some would call them, but not the type that he would want his parents to find him conversing with. He faintly remembered how they'd stood outside the tattoo parlour in town whilst he'd got two dark angel wings etched into his skin on one of their drunken rampages at midnight. Luckily, since it had been drawn onto his shoulder blades and back, none of his family had noticed it yet. The skin was still sore and red, despite the many ice packs Arthur had been shoving under his shirt but he needn't waste any more time worrying over it as it wasn't infected, that he was certain of.

Subconsciously brushing his fingers along the tender area, he ceased his coddling of Crumpet and disappeared into the separate tack room. He didn't feel like riding today – normally it was something he did when he was stressed or frustrated to ease the strain in his mind – so he just rummaged around under the musty leather saddles until he found what he had been searching for. A few bottles of beer. His parents, unknown to the hidden alcohol, never suspected a thing. Arthur was always very, very careful about his secret binging and never (rarely) exceeded his limit. _When I leave for boarding school, I'll be able to drink to my heart's content, _he thought with a sly smirk flickering across his himself up into the hayloft, he settled in the typical place; his back sinking into the hay as he stared out across the multitudes of fields, westwards where the sun would set. A few rare birds had made nests in the lofts about a half metre above his head, and they twittered anxiously before realizing that he wouldn't bring any harm to their chicks and was just admiring the view, as per usual.

After rootling in the yellow straw, being cautious not to prick his hands on some of the sharper, pointed stalks, he retrieved his guitar, brushing it down gently and caressing it smoothly with his hands. Skilfully biting the top of the beer bottle and wrenching the lid off before taking a large gulp of the saccharine honey liquor, savouring the bittersweet taste it left on his lips, his started to dance his fingers daintily across the strings. Plucking, stroking, fondling. Holding it close to his chest and allowing his mind to detach itself, driven by the powerful urges of the beer. The instrument sang blissfully, the melody ever-changing and consistent like the water. Yet, this was nothing like the relationship that a master and his tool would have, oh dear God no. This was the lonely dance of a lover, skipping across the crystalline surface of the moon, running on glass so fast that each step generated little more than a placid '_tep_' sound and leaping through the amalgam of stars. They danced together, but as one, a single being in the depths of absent silence.

The air of the night flowed with beautiful melody, high-pitched, soft, youthful. Although the music was twisted together in a tight embrace, jumping and twirling across the fields in a series of fluid motions, sometimes skipping into a joyous, leaping jig or flowing into something more sensual, interlocked with the breathing of the wind through the tall grass, it was separated too. Each being of sound was its own, differentiating and segregated. Much like blades of grass; from afar, they were entwined, yet if you really listened closely, you could hear the burning essence of fathomless loneliness and solitude. Yet, it wasn't sad, no. The sweet tune was no lament, for fire can never be despondent. It burns, flares, _sings. _The music danced and Arthur with it, still riddling his fingers upon the strings. Needless to say, Arthur "danced" late into the afternoon and was only interrupted when the sun started to bleed across the sky. Not that he noticed, of course.

"Artie!"

Immediately, Arthur ceased his playing, earning a twang from his beloved guitar that echoed crisply among the stable. At first, he blanched, expecting his father to come striding into the stone building, red faced and livid – after all, he had no idea that Arthur played the guitar and if he saw the booze…oh Lord…  
Alas, no. Arthur relaxed when he recognised the voice as that of his older brother, Dylan, who already knew of his secretive drinking (after all, he must've splurged on beer at some point in his life too, as did Cillian and Allistor) and discreet instrumental pleasures. He glared shiftily down at the ground below, watching as his brother strode into the stable and fixed him with a calm look. Dylan's own horse, a young Welsh cob called Llewellyn, nickered and trotted forwards, seeking to be petted as it reached forwards to nibble a few strands of his shoulder-length hair. Dylan's faced peeked in a smile, and he half-hugged the pony's neck whilst he continued speaking to Arthur.

"You might want to come down from there," he called upwards, his green eyes sparkling. "It's almost supper and you know how impatient Pa gets."

Arthur sighed heavily, taking a final gulp of his bottle of beer before burying his guitar safely under the hay again. He didn't appreciate his sessions being interrupted at all; it made him completely break the flow of his music and everything seemed fragmented.

"Pass us one whilst you're up there," Dylan gestured towards one of the bottles up in the hayloft, causing Arthur's face to twist into an irate scowl.

"You should buy your own!" he retorted indignantly.

"_You _shouldn't be buying them at all."

Dylan's voice remained calm and level, yet he raised one of his thickened eyebrows at his little brother, earning another exasperated groan. Sniffing disdainfully, Arthur flicked down a flask of the amber liquid, half hoping that it would smash on the cobblestones. It didn't and instead landed cleanly within Dylan's palm, just as he closed his nimble fingers around the glass and winked gratefully at his brother.

"Ty," he muttered, clicking off the cap and taking a swig whilst scratching the area between Llewellyn's ears tenderly. The colt snorted, glad for the affection and he shook his shaggy head, black eyes gazing onwards intently as Arthur slid down from the rafters, landing nimbly in the open area in the centre of the stables. Without a shred of hesitation, he pushed passed his brother noting the annoying height difference between them and started up the path back to the manor house. In the time that he'd been comfortably seated amongst the hay, the temperature had dropped rather phenomenally and Arthur regretted not bringing a coat with him at the least. His paper-thin shirt wasn't enough to maintain his regular body heat and his silver sweat vest wasn't protecting his chest from the biting wind at all. Shoddy school uniform, hm?

Even in summer, though, this was perfectly normal weather in Southern England, especially since it was evening and night was gradually approaching. Arthur hurried through the porch, quietly clicking the door off of the latch and entering the great entrance hall apprehensively. From the sounds of things, his mother was busying herself in the kitchen whilst his father appeared to be in the drawing room, replacing where Connor had been a few hours before. He was staring impassively at some documents, seemingly unfazed by whatever was written on them. Arthur knew his father well though; although he betrayed no emotion on his face, he noticed the distant twinkle in his eyes, revealing that he was worried about the family business. _As usual, I suppose._ Thankfully, the great grandfather clock stood proudly in the corner of the entrance hall chimed that it had only just struck 7:00pm, which was Arthur's curfew time. He found it preposterously unfair how he had to be home from his friends' houses as such an early time in the evening, and how he wasn't even allowed to go for a walk across the fields after said time, despite the fact that he'd turned sixteen last April. Nonetheless, his parent's word was law within the Kirkland house, so there was nothing he could say or do about it.

Following the usual procedure of gathering in the dining room before Mother served supper, Arthur stood at his chair around the rounded oblong table; next to Mother and opposite Connor, who was late (again) and who'd probably get punished for it later. Peter was already positioned, waiting patiently with his arms glued to his sides for mother to serve the food. From his grubby hands and how scattered the cutlery had been laid out, Arthur assumed that he'd set the table and suppressed a sigh. Once again, his fork and knife were on the wrong sides of his plate. After a minute of waiting in stony silence (if you blocked out Peter's purposeless chatter), Dylan finally waltzed into the room, having chugged down his beer in just a few swift glugs. Arthur shot him a sour glare, but he didn't seem to notice as he stood behind his chair which was across from Mother's. Eventually, Connor strode in too, followed closely by Mother who was carrying a large bowl of steaming broth carefully in her hands. Her face brightened as she counted her sons around the table, pleased that nobody would have to be scolded for being late to the dinner table. Nobody particularly enjoys scolding or watching their children be scolded. Flitting around the long table, she squeezed into her spot, pausing only to harshly chide Connor to stop nibbling his nails.

And finally, the last entrance was made by father himself, who secured his place at head of the table. Like the rest of the Kirkland family (save his wife), he had the traditional copious brows that stuck out on his forehead so blatantly yet he wore such a formal suit at what _should _be a familial meal. However, from the caged, tedious aura that hung in the air, thick enough to blanket a pin if it should randomly fall, it seemed that this happened every time the family was called to a meal. Once the patriarch has taken his place, where his fathers had stood before him, a silent signal rippled through the family and they suddenly bowed their head and started to mutter a rather long and monotone grace, blessing the food and showing great gratitude to the Lord. Whereas little Peter's voice was higher-pitched and almost proud to be bellowing out the thanks, Arthur mumbled inaudibly, resisting the impulse to roll his eyes.

Finally they could be seated and begin eating. An ominous silence settled over the table, much different to other families who would most definitely converse whilst they ate. Oppressive and impossibly dense, it shrouded the people huddled around the oak table until the last piece of broth had been eaten and the bowls had been polished clean with spoons. Since Peter had been the one to set up the table that night, Connor had to clear away. With a scowl, he exited the room, his arms laden with bowls, plates, spoons and glass cups, all gleaming like porcelain in the soft, pinkish glow emanating from the shades light on the ceiling. The redhead did not return, much to the irritation of his mother, yet she made no move to bring him back as she heard him clomping up the stairs and only muttered something under her breath about "not being excused from the table yet."

Although their father probably would've scolded Connor harshly for departing without permission, on this particular occasion, he didn't move and instead sipped delicately at his own cup of steaming tea. Long, deep lines were etched into his forehead from the many hours he spent worrying about the family business (since he'd been the eldest child out of his siblings, he'd inherited the business, which was a large publishing house that had evolved from an old editing company that his ancestor had set up long ago. Cillian was the next in line to take control of said corporate, however he showed absolutely no interest in such affairs at all which was one source of the patriarch's stress).

"What did you do today?" he asked his children, his eyes never moving from the boiling liquid.

"I did some studying!" Peter answered immediately, grinning proudly. His father simply nodded briefly, expecting someone else's voice to fill the silence after the youngest's announcement. It was Dylan's.

"Went for a walk," he murmured monotonously, his elbow resting on the edge of the table and the palm of his hand cupping around his chin. After his mother hissed angrily and chided him sourly, he rolled his eyes before repeating his sentence with "proper" grammar. "_I _went for a walk." Putting emphasis on the subject of the sentence, he bit his tongue to stop himself from adding a sly remark. In the Kirkland family, they had encouraged the "correct" dialect of England, meaning they had to spend unruly amounts of time revising the Queen's English (even though they lived in West England where people spoke in Bristol accents – in other words, farmer talk). Unfortunately, the somewhat posh tongue had rubbed off on Arthur and was rather strong thanks to his parents' fussing over him the most, and it followed him, even when he went out for drinking and got hammered, which led the "gang" to constantly tease and taunt him for sounding like a snob. The school seriously hadn't helped either by practically forcing the pronunciations down the pupils' throats. Not a nice feeling.

Arthur waited for a while, unwilling to answer the question his father had asked, but after a while, he was met with an inquiringly stern glare from his mother, a reprimand that he should show some decency to his higher ups, and his released his response with a sigh.

"I studied in my room."

He noticed his mistake almost instantly when his father grunted and met his gaze, eyes flaming pool of steely green.

"Why did you open the door and enter the house half an hour ago if you were studying in your room?"

Despite his care when entering the house, Arthur realized that his dad must've heard him from the drawing room whilst he'd been checking documents and he paled noticeably. If that had been detectable, who's to say that his father wouldn't be able to notice the slight glaze to his eyes thanks to the beer he'd downed, or the scent of alcohol mingling in the air? Tongue twisted into a tight knot, Arthur just opened his mouth, struggling to think of something to say. _I'm going to get beaten, I'm going to get beaten, I'm going to get beaten…_ He didn't like being punished at all – who would? – but it had been a while since the flimsy willow branch had tasted his skin, so he was a bit out of practice and he knew that it would sting considerably more than usual. And, what if his father pulled up his top to slap him across the back? _He'd reveal the new tattoo!_ Even if it would just be the tips of the feathery wings, his father would still be able to see the dark ink etched deep into his skin.  
_No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…_  
If either one of his parents found out about the late-night drinking, the occasional smoking or the tattoo, Arthur's life would be over before he knew it! He'd never be allowed to leave the house ever again, let alone go to a boarding school!

His father sighed heavily.

"Lying is sinful and God does not appreciate sinners, Arthur," he muttered, his voice low, tired and seething. "You are to spend the rest of your evening in your room and pray for forgiveness from Him. Think about what you have done."

The teen stared uncertainly at the man and his exhausted expression, streaks of wonderment and shock spread across his face. Clamping his mouth closed so that his jaw didn't scrape the ground, Arthur slowly heaved himself to his feet, shooting his father a quizzical look. For the first time in a long while, he noticed the few silver-white strands standing out like bleach in his hair, looking as if he'd just patted powdered snow onto his head. A pair of wizened jade eyes followed him as he left the dining room and began his ascent up the stairs, and he half expected to be called back to receive a beating. However the words never followed him up to his room, and breathing out a sigh of relief, Arthur closed the door behind him. It was odd for his father not to punish him, even though it was for something as trivial as lying. The punishments weren't bad, but they weren't nice either – perfectly humane for twenty years ago but probably frowned upon in this era.

Despite his father's odd behaviour, Arthur was just thankful he wouldn't feel the bite of the willow stick across his hands or back that evening and slumped down on his bed. It wasn't very late – only about eight o'clock – and he had no studying to do, so he dug around underneath his bed until his fingers cleared the bundle of random books and found his phone. Once again, his parents disapproved of him having a phone since they claimed he'd never need one since he wasn't allowed out passed seven o'clock even though he was sixteen, so he had to keep it hidden underneath his pile of textbooks in his room. It was old and it didn't work too well from years of use, but it did the job alright. Checking his text messages, Arthur muttered something incoherent and grinned when he realized that the "gang" would be heading out to the usual meeting place that night to binge on drink and perhaps chuck in a few cigarettes too. Whatever they did, he would be more than willing to join. He _had _to get away from the Godforsaken house.

Arthur wrenched off his sweaty school uniform and laid it somewhat neatly over his desk chair and pulled on more comfortable clothing to patrol the night in. He was careful to select a t-shirt that he wouldn't mind stinking of smoke and booze for the next few days and trousers that he wasn't too fussed about getting coated in vomit. The usual procedure, he finished his attire with a dark jacket and a pair of scuffed trainers before departing from his room. As he locked the door to prevent his parents from noticing he was gone (if they came to check on him, which was unlikely, they'd probably just assume that he was studying or asleep and didn't want to be disturbed) the sound of someone approaching caused him to turn suddenly and come face-to-face with Connor. The short brother eyed him indecisively, one eyebrow raised. Connor certainly wasn't oblivious to his older brother's antics, but he didn't really support them even though he had tried a few drinks before and choked on the harsh plumes from a cigarette. Although he'd never confess, he worried about Arthur mainly because of his erratic behaviour when he was drunk and how he would groan during his hangovers the morning after.

"You're going out?" the younger asked. Arthur just nodded mutely, and leaned over to poke the freckled boy's forehead affectionately before making his exit through the window and disappearing in the icy night.

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

_**A/N:**_

_So, Arthur has a tattoo! I always thought it'd be cool if he did. Technically, it would be a six string, but I thought it would be just a little bit more awesome if he had angel wings. If you type in angel wing tattoos in Google images, it'll come up with _loads _of pictures. I'm guessing that he'd have something like those, but the more feminine ones. And they wouldn't be the big-ass ones either, that literally go all of the way down to the hips and buttocks, because they look a bit odd (in my opinion).  
I've started work on Chapter Two, and the first part is almost done! Hooray! Anyway, here's a hearty thank-you to everybody who added this story to their alerts and favourites! Thank you!  
_

_Thank you very much for reading! Seriously, my day has been made just by that! _


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia – Axis Powers/World Series/The Beautiful World._

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**Part III**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

"Alfred! Wake up!"

His eyelids fluttered back, revealing the bland interior of an aeroplane staring down at him, laden with bags and blurred shapes shuffling in their seats. For a brief second, Alfred panicked, feeling an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach amongst the whirring engines of the aircraft and the sound of rushing air all around him. He sat up immediately, feeling something tickling the edge of his nose. Upon further inspection, he realized the "thing" was actually his glasses, as they'd slipped down his face as he'd been asleep. Truth be told, Alfred didn't really _need _glasses. His vision was perfectly fine without them. He'd deduce his knack of wearing them down to an unbreakable routine.

When he and Matthew had been younger children, the latter of the two had been forced to get glasses to help with his impaired sight. Alfred recalled how they'd seldom wanted to be differentiating from each other, and how he'd instantly bought a pair for himself, that didn't affect his eyesight negatively. Ever since that day, he too had walked around school with spectacles, trying to strength the bond he had with his twin. They were twins after all, and neither of them wanted to be unique. They were one and the same, and that would never change.  
A twang of pain pinched at his chest at the reminder of his brother, and Alfred fiddled with his glasses solemnly, readjusting them until they were resting on the bridge of his nose and he blinking wearily, wondering why his father had woken him up. His eyes glanced quickly at the window, since he recognized that the cabin was considerably darker than when he'd drifted off to sleep earlier. His gaze was greeted with never-ending darkness, profound and absolute, and mixed with the swirling mass of stars encrusting the heavens with eerie light. The dimness resonating from such stars was barely enough to illuminate the sky, but when Alfred pressed his face to the glass (he noted that it was colder than before), he awed at the faint colour tinging the edges of the soft pools of brightness.

"We're landing soon."

Sure enough, shortly after the words had left his father's mouth, a somewhat quiet voice over the speaker instructed all passengers to take their seats as the plane began its descent into the darkness. Black fog rose up like the ocean, engulfing the flying beast and blocking out the faint light that had managed to enter the cabin, radiating from the stars. As Alfred leaned back in his chair, feeling an unfamiliar, odd feeling in the pit of his stomach that made him believe he was falling although he wasn't, he watched with desolate sadness as the stars disappeared behind the thick smog. He often liked watching the stars and trying to point out various constellations – he felt lonely without their presence so close. Just a few moments ago, he'd been in a space of breathless delight, feeling that he was so high up that he could just reach through the windows and touch the cosmos.

But they were gone, growing smaller and smaller as they shrunk back upwards into the ether, leaving the lifeless bird to plummet back down to earth.

Having nothing better to do, Alfred just sat still (as still as he could manage) and waited until the brighter, neon luminosities emanating from down below caught his attention. Eyes rimmed with shadows from the lack of sleep he'd had, the teen leaned over to marvel at the new spectrum below; instead of the icy warmth that reached out towards him from above, _these _lights were blinding and strangely confusing, glowing white-hot in complete parallel to the shock of the cold winds far, far above. Whilst some blinked incandescently, resembling the flickering flames of a fire, others were deep ochre in colour and stood in long lines side by side. _Street lamps maybe? _Either way, Alfred deduced that not only did London have an impressive selection of lights, but it was absolutely _huge_, with the array of neon colours stretching out across the black backdrop of the ground as far as the eye could see. It was spectacular…heck, it looked like it was even bigger than New York!

The ground seemed to rise upwards to meet them, getting closer and closer as the lights spread further and further apart, revealing the wide surface of a river and cars. Lots and lots of cars. The plane swerved to the right, dipping downwards on Alfred's half and unveiling the brilliance of the midnight city in its full glory. The blond sat tight, staring with wide eyes and everything and anything he could see – the wonders of London. Finally, the plane's wheels touched down on the runway, sending an unearthly jolt through the cabin and sliding to a rickety halt in the darkness. Alfred unclicked his seatbelt, the artificial metropolitan stars still dazzling his eyes and gleaming behind his glasses, and followed his father off of the plane, dragging his hand luggage behind him.

The airport was empty, and from what it looked like, the flight they'd just gotten off had been the last arrival of the evening. No, wait…after glancing at the large analogue clock, the teen realized that it was about 1:00am. Yet, he didn't feel exhausted at all as he stood by the conveyor belt and waited for his suitcase to come trundling passed. It was odd, standing in such a large room with only a handful of people. It felt like the type of place that would be stuffed to the brim with all sorts of people all hours of the day, but it was so _quiet_. In a way, it was good since Alfred didn't particularly like large crowds, despite living in freaking New York all his life, but it was so desolate that it was almost creepy. And the blond was definitely _not _a fan of creepy things _at all_. Following a handful of tense moments where he was absolutely, positively _sure _that someone (or some_thing_) was watching him move from behind the suitcase trolleys, both his dad and he had managed to collect their suitcases from the belt and were swiftly marching through the empty airport to get to…well, Alfred didn't actually know where they were going at all…

"Hey, Dad," he muttered, half-surprised as his voice ricocheted off of the walls and floors as they walked. "Where are we going?"

"To a hotel," the man answered simply, the wheels of his baggage rumbling along the floor. "Then, we'll have to get up early to have breakfast and then wait for your auntie and uncle to pick us up!" Alfred resembled his dad by quite a bit, if you didn't count the fact that he didn't have glasses and the more "mature" look about him. Both of their eyes glittered with the same arduous zeal and their hair was the same shade of caramel blond; since his father was quite young (for a father, at least) sometimes it was difficult to tell them apart (when they had their backs to you of course). Although his father brandished the trademark grin of the Jones family, beneath his cheery exterior, he was jittering with nerves. He hadn't seen his parents in an extremely long time – not since he'd left England seventeen years ago with his wife to live in America – and he was anxious to how his younger sister would react after seeing him for so long. Well, he had about nine hours to prepare before she arrived to drop him off at his parent's house in Somerset, so he figured there was no point in worrying too much about it. He'd have to face his family sooner or later. Alfred had never met them before anyway, so it didn't really concern or make a difference to him.

There was no chatter between the father and son as they eased their way through British customs, even though they'd been pulled over on multiple occasions and asked the same questions at least five times each; "Why are you moving here?", "Is there anyone who can prove this for us?", "So, you're wife – oh right, _ex_-wife – is moving to France with your other son?", "And you're an American citizen but you were born here?"  
Nor was there any speech when they walked through Terminal Four towards the Hilton hotel, either from fatigue or the overall awkwardness of the fact that whenever they spoke, it would fill every corner of the room. The Hilton wasn't a cheap hotel, but considering the time that their flight had landed and the fact that said hotel was attached to the airport itself, they'd had to book it even if it was just so that they could get at least six hours of sleep. Although Alfred hadn't been tired at all before, he was beginning to feel an annoying droop lingering on his eyelids and a slur coming to his mouth every time he tried to talk. _Jetlag_. _Definitely_. It didn't take the duo long to arrive in the reception and sign-in, despite the receptionist's cold and bland attitude, and they both collapsed on their respective beds upon unlocking the room, not even bothering to remove their clothing.

As they say, the apple never falls too far from the tree. Or was it an acorn?

Either way, they both slept like logs long after the winter sun arose over the urban skyline and cast an anxious, pale light in their chamber. In fact, they _over_slept at least an hour passed the time they should've awoken. By the time James (Alfred's father) had managed to creak open his eyes, the sun had already inched itself a fair bit above the horizon, and the clock was close to striking 9:00am. They were supposed to get picked up at 10:00am. Without a second of hesitation, he was on his feet, roughly shaking his son awake and dashing into the bathroom to shower. Alfred, on the other hand, being a lazy teenage bum, just groaned and rolled onto his side, resisting against the need to get up with the urge to bury himself underneath the swamp of duvets again. Nonetheless, he forced himself to roll out of the sea of covers and he landed awkwardly on the floor, his glasses skewed as he hadn't removed them the night before. His lack of bathing thanks to their erratic schedule had resulted in a distasteful scent wafting from his underarms and he sighed irately, before waiting for his dad to get out of the shower. They weren't known for taking especially long showers, but that could be a whole different matter if you had a tight agenda (not that Alfred really cared for those, but still. He smelled and he didn't like it.)

"Dad! Hurry up!" His point was emphasized from the numerous loud knocks that followed on the bathroom door.

"Just a minute!"

The door burst open, revealing a very naked middle-aged man with nothing but a towel around his neck to stop his hair from dripping. _Seriously!? He has a towel and _that's _the place he decides to put it!? _Now, Alfred may have been attracted to men, but there was no way that such an unsightly scene was a turn-on for him whatsoever. I mean, it was his father for crying out loud – why would he feel a sexual attachment to his own father of all people? Alfred didn't blush, nor did he stutter. He just rolled his eyes, groaning and muttering a harsh "Dad!" before pushing passed him and getting along with his own hygiene business which included shaving (his face as boys his age _do_ tend to start growing beards), showering and hurriedly brushing his teeth. Even though he could painfully lazy sometimes, even Alfred knew his own sanitation standards, and he absolutely _hated _the bedraggled hobo look that unkempt stubble brought about his appearance. Not that he had to shave much since he had light coloured hair. Once a week or so (or once a fortnight when he could get away with it) was enough.

Eventually, he'd managed to dry himself and drag on some suitable clothes (loose-fitting jeans that just about showed the rim of his boxers since he didn't have a belt that wasn't broken, an unbearably bright pink T-shirt complete with images of vibrant green aliens, stars and large bubble writing scrawled across the front, a faded blue jacket and, obviously, his glasses perched upon his nose) and gather his luggage – at least five minutes before they were supposed to meet up with his aunt and uncle. Their tight schedule and late morning meant that they'd been forced to skip breakfast, which was never a good decision, and thus the unlikely duo found themselves stood in the lobby of the hotel, impatiently awaiting the arrival of their transportation. The view from the large window stretched across the entrance to the reception was fairly bland; an ocean of airfields with a large car park at one end, and small flashing objects rolling up and down the horizon – probably cars on a motorway. In the out-of-place sunshine, they glittered like stars, winking under the ways of bright light.

"Hey, Dad?" the teen asked, zipping up his jacket and stuffing his hands into his pockets. "What does Aunt…wait, what was her name again?"

"Aunt Shirley?"

"Yeah, that was it. What does she look like?"

James hesitated for a moment, not quite knowing the answer to that question himself. It had been a long time since he'd seen his sister, and he wasn't quite sure if she'd changed much in the years. Since she was about five years young than him…she'd been only fifteen when he'd left for America all those years ago. After trying and failing to remember her face, he just shrugged.

"Uhh…I can't really remember very well. She'd had short hair, uh, blonde I think. And blue eyes…?"

He broke off as the sounds of a vehicle pulling into the car park wrenched both of their attention back to the window. The tinted glass and the glaring sun made it so it was impossible to see who was hidden behind the doors of the Mini Cooper, but Alfred was too busy marvelling at the miniature size of the car to care. He didn't think he'd ever seen something with such a small build before – what if there was a powerful wind? The car looked like it would get blown right over! However, there were no fierce gales whisking outskirts of London. Only the cooling breeze that whispered across the fields of grass and hummed against the doors to the lobby. James narrowed his eyes the Mini Cooper stuttered to a halt just outside the hotel and, finally, the driver nestled within its belly was revealed.

Two people stepped out; the first was a man, his expression that of boredom as his heavily-lidded eyes briefly scanned the building and he mouthed something to the second. His hair, longer than it should be for a man, gave him a youthful aura, yet the dark stubble dotted on his chin said otherwise – a strange combination of features on his face. Although Alfred couldn't see him very well (even when he adjusted his glasses), he guessed that the newcomer might've been in either his late twenties or early thirties…maybe. He started to doubt his deduction as the man came closer and he noticed the deep violet border to his eyes, permanently inked into his skin, and the indents lining his forehead (stress lines). Mid thirties, at the _least_.  
As for his partner – she seemed to contrast his cold insomnia-appearance completely, with bouncy blonde curls, held up in a ponytail that swayed every time she took a step, and a smooth, flawless complexion (probably added by foundation). Despite that though, her elegant gait and clothing definitely reflected her maturity – you see, not _all _blondes were dumbasses who did nothing but squeal like a tween girl on too much caffeine.

As the complementary pair drew closer, James shifted slightly and started to gaze uncertainly at the floor – these gestures of discomfort only intensified as the woman started to break into a fast pace walk as she stormed through the double doors of the lobby and embraced him with a tight, rushed hug. After a few seconds of utter confusion, Alfred's mind clicked. The woman was Aunt Shirley.

"What is wrong with you, James!?" she scolded after breaking from the hug, a stern expression on her face. "I swear, we haven't heard from you in _years_, and you decide to phone Mum and Dad up one day to ask if you can live with them for a while!? You're stupid. Stupid and crazy."

"It's nice to see you too, Sis."

Aunt Shirley paused for a while – a long while – and just stared at her older brother, somewhat puzzled. Obviously, she hadn't spoken face-to-face with him for a while, which is why it came as a shock that she was hearing a generic Manhattan dialect instead of her own West English accent (which is how she'd last heard her brother talk). Alfred, on the other hand, was still puzzled – this time, not from why she'd just hugged his father, but more from the fact that she sounded like she'd just walked out of the movie '_War Horse_.' Contrary to popular belief, he thought that most Brits spoke with the Queen's English, sounding fancy and rich and obnoxious. He was very, very wrong about that, of course.

"You don't sound posh!" he blurted out immediately, drawing a tense, awkward silence between the family again. After the words had left his mouth, he regretted it since he found all gazes fixed upon him; the neutrally amused expression of his dad, a bemused stare from Aunt Shirley, who was now looking him up and down like he was an object on a shelf to be gawked at, and the eerie dullness of sleep-deprived eyes from the unnamed man who stood beside her, tousled black hair curling around his ears and neck. Quizzical moments passed, and he found himself getting redder and redder the more they stared – _had that been a stupid statement? _Then, Aunt Shirley began to laugh. She began to laugh a lot.

"Posh? What are you talking about?" she guffawed, snorting as she chortled. She really didn't have the most attractive giggle. Alfred grinned awkwardly, hoping he wasn't blushing too much from raw embarrassment. "Ha! You're funny! And you look so much like your dad too! You're…er…Matthew, right?"

"Alfred," he corrected, beaming as he moved his wiped the outside of his glasses as something to do other than fiddle with the various strings he had in his pockets.

"Ah, Alfred," Aunt Shirley mused to herself. "So, you're the younger twin." Alfred and his father nodded, creating a quirky, almost identical mirror image. "Well, I'm your Aunt Shirley!" Originally, the teen reached out his hand for her to shake, but he faltered when she rushed forwards to give him an almighty, rib-crushing hug instead. He hesitated, before returning it, albeit cumbersomely, as if he didn't quite know how to respond. Then again, this was a random woman whom he'd never met before who was suddenly breaking his spine in an act of affection. Over her shoulder, he found himself looking straight at the odd man, who hadn't moved except to gently scratch his half-beard and rub his shoulder as if it ached slightly. Alfred tried to catch his eye and smile, but the man, despite seeming to gaze in his general direction, didn't seem to notice.

Eventually, after a millennia of being crinkled against his aunt, like paper being crumpled up into a ball, she released him and moved backwards to stand beside said man again before introducing him.

"And this is my husband, Barry," Shirley said, verbally prompting her partner to reach forwards and shake their hands. He complied, and offered a weak, slightly strained smile as his rough hand clasped around Alfred's palm, following James'. The conversation that followed was fairly boring and monotone, with a peculiar mash of accents thrown together; two American, one Somerset and Barry's, of which Alfred couldn't quite distinguish. The way he pronounced things, in a sing-song, melodic way with a richer, fuller tone underneath, was very different to how Shirley spoke but…he must've been British too, right?  
For some reason, the siblings stood in the lobby for at least another ten minutes, catching up on "old times" and such, whilst Alfred just stood there apprehensively, unsure of whether he should try and contribute to the banter (most of which he didn't quite understand). Finally, they decided to make a move for the Mini Cooper, of which Barry was driving, so Alfred clambered into the back after trying to stuff all of his and James' luggage into the boot, along with Shirley who insisted that her brother should sit in the front.

"Your Gran and Gramps can't wait to meet you," Shirley exclaimed once the car spluttered into motion and pulled out on the motorway where it started to zoom along at a steady, lulling rhythm. Just the roar of the engine and the flashing countryside that wheeled by would've enough to send Alfred off to sleep again if it weren't for the gnawing in his stomach. He hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday. "They've only ever seen pictures that your dad sent over when you were a baby." _Oh, sweet Jesus…_ Alfred flushed crimson at the thought of him as baby – from the pictures he'd seen, he'd been quite chubby and definitely not cute _at all, _despite the protests from his parents' old friends.  
His Aunt Shirley was fairly talkative, providing most of the topics of discussion as they trundled across English countryside, away from London and towards the western counties. Alfred could only stare out at the field, marvelling at the landscape and the array of creatures he'd have _never _seen near any urban parts of the states; cows, sheep etc.

"Are you leaving behind anyone special?" Shirley asked, flowing onto the next subject easily and flashing a quick wink in the teen's direction.

"What?" Alfred frowned, not quite comprehending what his aunt was implying.

"You know – like a _girlfriend_?" she prompted. The teen blanched, turning away so she wouldn't see the divergent whiteness of his forehead and sudden rosy tinge that had sprung to his cheeks. That word alone was obstinate enough, but how would he be able to tell his own aunt and uncle he was gay? Twiddling his thumbs, Alfred came to a fast decision; he might as well tell them or they'd probably figure out sooner or later. It couldn't hurt though, could it? It's not like they'd pull over and throw him headfirst out of the cab if he told them…right?

"Well…you see…uhm…I -"

"No."

It was James who ended that theme with his sharp interruption, without meeting either his son's or his sister's eye. Alfred scowled, half hurt as he chewed his lower lip; he _knew _that his father disapproved of his sexuality…but it wasn't like he could hide him from the world forever, was it? He might not have accepted it with open arms, however that didn't give him the right to restrict who Alfred told…perhaps…perhaps he was _ashamed _to let his family members know. Feeling a little sick, Alfred sealed his mouth shut, praying for a miracle. Shirley's eyes were narrowed as they flickered between the two. She had guessed something was wrong between them and her curiosity got the better of her as she opened her mouth to speak.

Alfred cringed as his stomach roared, voicing its ravenous hungers for the whole car to hear.

"Have you eaten breakfast?" Barry asked, his sonorous voice tinged with amusement.

"…no…" he answered sheepishly, discomfited from the loud grumble that had escaped from his empty belly.

"Alright, how about we pull over in Salisbury for some brunch then?" Aunt Shirley suggested, beaming. "My treat."

Barry simply nodded, glancing at a roadside sign that stated how far they were from the various towns scattered around Somerset and Wiltshire.  
_Salisbury: 3 miles  
Yeovil: 48 miles  
Chard: 67 miles  
_  
Alfred tried to sit tight, realizing just how long they'd actually been sitting in the car for; _two whole hours_! Legs stiffened and pricked with imaginary pins and needles, he was immensely gladdened when they pulled over after entering a small town laden with mini brick houses dotted up and down narrow streets. It was a rather quaint area, nothing like the urban set-up of New York at all. He basked in the sunshine, the orb of warmth at its pinnacle, floating high up in the sky, admiring the serenity of the quiet village. Much unlike his birthplace, there were no honking horns or vivid language being spewed between angry drivers on the road…it was _peaceful_. And Alfred kind of liked it.

The group wandered down the numerous streets, enjoying the blissful silence and nodding towards locals who walked down the roads as they searched for somewhere to eat. They paused as they turned another corner, gabbling quick "Good mornings" to various people who walked in the opposite direction and admired the view down the half-empty road. One peculiar building stood out among the rest, with its bright white-washed walls and thatched roof. '_The Cloisters_' was what the sign on the front read, although Alfred had to pause for a while to run the word over his tongue, next to a black billboard listing the dishes they served within.

"How about we eat here?" James proposed, shuffling towards the entrance as though his mind was already made. Shirley just shrugged and they made their way inside.

"What's changed since I've been gone?" James immediately continued once they'd taken their seats around a rectangular table. Most of the discussion from before, at the hotel, had been focused around James and Alfred and how they'd been getting along in America, yet Shirley and Barry hadn't really revealed much about themselves.

"You've "been gone" about seventeen years. _Everything's _changed," his younger sister replied, flicking her fingers through the menu to select a drink. "Where should I begin?"

"'Dunno. From where I left off?"

"What, when I was back in _high school_?"

Alfred detected a hint of venom in her voice as he stared at the beverages he could order. Perhaps she blamed her brother for leaving when she was so young, but she certainly didn't say the words in a loving tone. Nonetheless, her neutral smile hadn't disappeared from her face.

"Yeah, I guess."

Shirley snorted.

"I passed most of my GCSEs, at least and went to Manchester University where I studied English Literature. Medieval and Renaissance to be exact," she explained, her irises rolling upwards as she accounted for all of the years that her brother had missed. "I met Barry at uni – he's from Ceredigion – he was studying Music, weren't you, love?" She aimed the last segment at her husband, who was inspecting the menu tiredly.

"Hm?" he had looked up at the sound of his name, a lazy tint to his eyes. "Oh, yeah."

"And now he's a lecturer at Cardiff. He's got to get up early thanks to us living in Bath."

"Thankfully not too early. It's only an hour drive," the black haired man joked half-heartedly. It sounded strange, and too mellow with his deep accent that Alfred still couldn't distinguish. _Jeez, he hardly looks like a musician…_

The teenager eventually zoned out after hearing all of the bizarre names of, what he assumed were, towns and cities. _But who would name a city 'Bath?' _He only spoke when he ordered his meal and drink and when he was addressed. He could appreciate that his father wanted to catch up with everything he'd missed, but it seriously reminded him of life back in their apartment in Manhattan when his parents had constantly molly-coddled Matthew and paid little attention to him. Supressing a sigh, he twitched and laid his cutlery down on his plate even though the others were barely halfway through their meals – he always had been an extremely fast eater, wolfing down his food at an alarming pace, miraculously, without choking.

A half hour of eating and mindless chatting later, they were in the car again, whooshing past the fields and fields of random animals and creatures who stood and subconsciously chewed on grass or other flora, and about an hour after that, they'd reached their destination; the humble town of Chard. It wasn't really much of a town. Just a cluster of houses spread over a few long roads that intersected in the centre and col-de-sacs interweaving through each other like warrens. One such close was where the vehicle found itself, brimming with suitcases and bags as it rounded various corners and spat as it halted on a boulevard named '_Holbear_.'

"Well, here we are!" Shirley announced cheerily, seemingly oblivious to the amount of stress that was emanating from James and Alfred.

"We're here?" the older of the two asked nervously, clearly not recognising the neighbourhood they were in at all.

"What's up, James?" his sister asked as they both clambered out of the car. "Oh yeah! Mum and Dad downsized after May graduated since they didn't need such a big house anymore, so they live here now. The old house is about a mile away."

For some reason, Alfred relaxed a little, knowing that his father felt a little out-of-place too, surrounded by the lush scenery and stretches of groomed grassland in all directions. He'd heard of Aunt May before – she was the youngest of his dad's siblings, right? Supposedly two years younger than Shirley, she lived in a place called Cornwall and, apparently, she'd be coming up to visit sometime during the holidays. He vaguely remembered his father telling him that she was incredibly busy, being a software engineer. He actually looked forward to meeting her since he was convinced she might be able to get him a cool new game to test out or something before it was released.

As Barry started to unload the luggage from the Mini, Shirley ushered two (almost identical) Americans down a narrow side-street, grinning at their puzzled and anxious expressions and the icy sweat that was trickling down their necks. Neither knew where they were going until they were pointed in the direction of an elongated house (that couldn't quite be classed as a bungalow) with a spacious, swanky front garden, brandishing an array of trimmed shrubs and flowers for the whole neighbourhood to see. Not that Alfred was paying any attention to that, of course. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the pebbly path that led to a gleaming white door, fixed into place on one part of the house that looked like it wasn't really supposed to be there as it was jutting out (but then again, the home would've been just a boring rectangle if it hadn't been there). It also neatly concealed the conservatory, which also looked odd as it was entirely made out of glass and you could easily see right into it. To Alfred, it was a bit open as if the people who lived within (he was still coming to terms that those 'people' were actually his grandparents) trusted their neighbours too much, but it was also luxurious. For someone who had only lived in a square shack in a concrete block, from the outside, the house was adorably authentic. Contrary to Alfred's belief that "bigger was better", he secretly thought that the little "bungalow" was actually…_nice _(it wasn't really a bungalow since there appeared to be a miniature section upstairs from the slightly raised roof).

Shirley was the one who rang the doorbell, alerting whoever dwelled inside that they'd arrived despite James' nervous shuffling and Alfred still comprehending that he was so close to meeting his actual _grandparents. _His friends had always told him about how their gran or grandpa baked them cookies on the weekend, but of course he'd never known what it was like to know his gran or grandpa. _I wonder…_he thought to himself as he heard the sound of slow footsteps tapping against the floorboards within the abode. _Will Matthew be meeting our other grandparents now…or has he already met them? _Both Americans froze as the door creaked open.

Behind stood a tall woman, past the prime of her life but still holding some sort of attractiveness between the thin lines that had started to appear on her worn, kindly face, her bright azure eyes glittering with the natural beauty that only the stellar constellations could hold and rimmed with oval glasses (that were actually quite similar to Matthew's). There was something about her tousled hair, streaked with silver and drawn up in a tight bun, and the laxly experienced aura that surrounded and the long skirt that fluttered delicately at her heels that told Alfred that she was quite a bit older than she looked. Again, make-up could hide these blemishes, and although she didn't lather it on (like most teen girls) it was just barely detectable, but only if you were very observant to the point that you could tell the exact area of a room just by breathing in its scent. One second, the "old" woman was stood in the doorway, a smile stretched thinly across her face, much like butter that had been spread over too much bread, and the next her arms were slung around Alfred's shoulders and she was hugging him tightly.

"Oh James!" she cried, her South-Western accent unfamiliar to Alfred's ears as he stumbled back slightly, completely caught off guard by the unprovoked hug. "Where have you _been _all of these years!?" This embrace continued for quite a while; Alfred locked in place by the woman's unusually strong arms and by the sheer shock of being "assaulted" when he hadn't even done anything, whilst she murmured and scolded him with every breath she took.

"Uhh…" the teen muttered gawkily.

"It's been such a long time!" the woman exclaimed, releasing him and staring straight into his turquoise eyes, her gaze a mixture of worry, glee and ire. "And it seems like you haven't aged a day! You have glasses now too…wait a minute…" She leaned in closer, further invading Alfred's personal space. "In fact…you've hardly changed at all…apart from…you seem _younger _than the last time I saw you…?" Puzzled, she adjusted her spectacles slightly and scratched her head in confusion, before her gaze darted to the actual James – who'd been observing the scene with mischievous amusement and a grin plastered on his maw – and the pieces clicked into place.

"You're not James! You're _Alfred_!"

"Well, yeah…" Alfred mumbled, his cheeks flushing crimson. _Is this my grandma…? _Something about her reminded him immensely of James; perhaps the zealous flash hidden behind her spectacles, or the lines carved into her face from the many times that she'd smiled too widely. _It must be._

"Oh my!" she mused, raising a hand to her mouth in surprise. "You look so much like your father." It wasn't much of an amazement for Alfred to hear those words come tumbling from her mouth – after all, he was told that multiple times. Shortly after she'd uttered the sentence, she turned to her son (not her grandson) and greeted him in a familiar way, this time 100% sure that it was the person she actually thought it was, yet with more scolding and hugging as Shirley stood by patiently and waited until they were invited inside the house (Barry followed suit, dragging James' and Alfred's hand luggage with him). Thus followed the usual "where have you been?", "what have you been doing?" and "how have things been?" whilst Alfred just gawked at the charming home that he'd been welcomed into; the walls, washed white, were lined with various paintings (Shirley pointed out that some were actually portraits that Alfred's grandma, Poppy, had painted herself since she'd been an avid artist in her younger years) whilst the carpet stretched out like a bright velvet meadow beneath their feet. Shimmying into the conservatory, with its glorious transparent windows showing off the side and rear garden, whilst overlooking part of the street too, Alfred followed his father's example and shuffled out of his shoes.

Through the mingled scents of the country and flowers, there was an underlying of something harsh and bittersweet in the air, enough to let a light cough escape from the teen's mouth. _Smoke_. At first, Alfred panicked, his eyes scanning the glass dome for licking red flames – he found none, and instead he saw a thin sliver of charcoal smog dancing on the wind outside, wafting from a man who had his back turned to the conservatory altogether. The door was half-open, leaving an entrance that the smoke from a smouldering cigarette clasped between his fingers might have snaked in through and also allowing the sound of visitors to slither outwards, alerting the man on the lawn that the guests had arrive. He turned, revealing his crumpled face, flawed and blemished with age and an essence of meek surprise in his twinkling eyes. He crushed the cigarette, and was inside, half-hobbling, half-skipping towards the two Americans who had entered his abode in a matter of seconds. He wasn't old – well…not _old-_old at least – like Poppy, he seemed to be just-slightly-above-middle-aged, yet the way he walked and tightly grasped both Alfred's and James' hands said otherwise.

"James, James, James," he tutted. "What am I going to do with my most wayward son, hm?"

"Hi Dad. By the way, I'm pretty sure I'm your _only _son."

"I can't believe, after all of these years, I _finally _get to meet my grandson," Poppy exclaimed again as the father and son had their own separate reunion of manly handshakes, pulling the rather flustered Alfred into yet another hug – this time, it felt much different though. Unlike the first, it was more affectionate and (grand)motherly rather than seemingly starved and frustrated and joyous, and this time, Alfred returned it, or at least he tried to. He wasn't quite used to hugs or kisses being planted on his cheeks, which was why he almost shied away. Then again, he'd never had a grandmother until then, so he wasn't sure how he should act altogether in the first place. In his eyes, she was just a random, slightly-past-middle-aged woman who had only seen a collection of photographs of him as a chubby baby, sent to her via computer. For her, to be able to hold her grandson when she never could've when he was nothing but a toddler; it hurt, because she knew that she'd missed out on vital years of his life, but at the same time it made her feel happy. She knew that she'd be a good grandmother to him, even if it meant spoiling him rotten whenever he came home from boarding school and showering him with gifts and presents. That's what grandmothers were supposed to do and it's what she intended to do, to catch up for all of the wasted years that had gone by without her care.

"So this is your room, Alfred," she told him a few hours later when Barry and Shirley had departed for their respective house, following a riveting adventure through the bowels of the bungalow. 'His' room, previously a spare guest bedroom, had been made up especially for him and rested at the end of the corridor, past the staircase and almost wedged between two bathrooms. It was about the same size as the room he'd left behind in the Manhattan flat, yet the difference was that he wouldn't be sharing it with his twin, making it seem all the more personal and voluminous. A double bed, squeezed between a deep ochre coloured dresser and a window, the curtains drawn back to reveal the back garden and the acres of unused grass beyond, had been decorated with deep azure cushions and a blue throw, complete with rumples and an intricate pattern woven on the front. The bedroom opposite his would be where James slept – it was roughly the same apart from the fact it had an en-suite toilet. Alfred wouldn't argue or throw a tantrum about that though. He was just overwhelmed he'd have a bedroom all to himself – and with such a view, too!

"I hope you like it," Poppy continued modestly. "I tried to set it up how a teenager would…"

There was nothing much more she could say before she was enveloped in a bear hug by her grandson, of whom was grinning warmly and glad that someone had actually gone through so much effort for him. Although it would be unnecessary to say, Alfred slept peacefully later that day, being exhausted from his journey and the thrills of meeting his family after years of barely knowing they existed.

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

_**A/N:**_

_Ah, so now we finally meet Alfred's dear family, including his aunt Shirley, her husband Barry and his grandparents. Yup. They're all side characters that won't be mentioned much anyway, but I kinda wanted to give them some time to show their colours before they disappeared in the sweep of characters from boarding school.  
I apologize for any mistakes found here. I'm seriously tired and I haven't had the time to proof-read this part…so…meh…if you could leave anything you find in a review, I'd be very grateful.  
Anyway, I got some reviews! Thank you to kyo-kun and bittersweet123! I really appreciate your reviews – they both made me so happy!_

_kyo-kun:_  
_I know I already sent you a review to thank you, but I still want to mention it here too because it just made me feel so undeniably awesome. Thank you so much! Since you were wondering which of the UK siblings was which, I might as well answer that as well._  
_Cillian: Republic of Ireland. I know that England and Ireland haven't really seen eye-to-eye, and I've tried to reflect that in their relationship in the later parts as well. But, I'm guessing that Ireland's on good terms with Wales, and even better terms with Scotland, so there'll be some brotherly fluffles there. Oh, but he wouldn't get on with Northern Ireland. At all._  
_Allistor: Scotland. Since records have been found that Ireland is older than Scotland, that's why I've portrayed Scotland as the second oldest (sometimes, I find fanfictions where Wales is the oldest, but I don't think that's correct). Contrary to popular belief that Scotland is some badass punk who loves to inflict pain on England, I'm basing him on the many Scottish people I know. Being half-Scottish, I visit Scotland every year and I absolutely love it there. As far as I know, nobody there is aggressive unless drunk or extremely angry (or unless they're Glaswegian xD)._  
_Dylan: Wales. I try not to favour him too much since he's the personification of my country, but that's always a little difficult. We are a musical little country with lots of culture and yes, most Welshmen and women love to sing. We have so many orchestras and choirs it's hard to keep count! I love him as the tsundere-ish character who's also got a lovable, playful side too._  
_Connor: Northern Ireland. Since Northern Ireland became a country in the 1920s, he wouldn't be Ireland's twin, at all. I see a lot of that around…and it's just incorrect, so I get mad. And Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland probably wouldn't like each other because of the whole Catholic/Protestant divide thing. There's been loads of stuff on the news lately about Belfast which is quite upsetting, so I'm guessing that as characters they really wouldn't like each other._  
_And that's it! Phew, long explanations! I thought I'd include it here rather than in a PM so that others would get an idea of the UK bros as well._

_And thank you to everyone who added this story to their alerts and favourites. I am so, so, SO happy right now because of it! I swear, I can't sit still (even though I'm exhausted and I just wanna post this chapter and go to bed)._

_Please leave a review! _


	4. Chapter 4

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Part IV**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

The majority of the first week was spent unpacking and adjusting to the new environment in which they were staying. Whereas James slowly started to ease his way back into the "English" way of living from when he'd been a teenager, it was much harder for Alfred to grasp the sounds of cows bellowing every afternoon in divergence to the absence of a squeaking pigeon as it was startled by the beeping of a car horn. When he'd first arrived in the country, it had been peaceful and serene, only ever hearing the sound of a car's tires against tarmac when his dad left for the supermarket in the morning to go and do the food shopping (since he was registered to his parent's car) or on the rare occasion that a neighbour was going on a trip somewhere. It was, after all, the summer holidays, so there wasn't any action or anything mildly interesting going on anywhere in the unpretentious town of Chard.

What had started out as a relaxing getaway from the urban city, soon turned into a boring routine. As Alfred wandered back from the local market, a plastic bag almost dragging against the floor from the weight of the milk carton held within, he pondered what he could do when he got home. It was a question he'd started to ask himself more and more – you see, there was absolutely _nothing _to do in the town. Perhaps he'd thought the country would be a little bit like the Wild West which he saw so often in his favourite movies, however it was nothing of the sort. There were no cowboys galloping back and forth, bareback on towering horses with sheening bay coats nor were there people clad completely in feathers with vivid colours smeared across their cheeks. It was rather stupid to think that's what Somerset would be like, really. _Cowboys and Indians. How childish. _

Alfred had enjoyed playing that game with Matthew when they were children. He was, of course, the cowboy, dressed in tattered leather and wearing the symbolic hat and holding the plastic gun that clicked every time he fired a shot. Matthew hadn't fitted the role of a Native Indian very well; he was skittish and as non-barbaric as one could possibly be. However, you can't be too stereotypical about it. Not _all_ Native Americans were fierce and cruel. Just look at '_Pocahontas_.' Alfred had lived in Somerset for about a month with his grandparents. Although, at first, each day had been a little awkward in the new presence of grandma and grandpa, he'd soon settled back into his comfortably amiable skin, showing his radiant smile more often in the original Jones household and practically radiating wonderful idiocy wherever he went. He was not a difficult teen to like (even if he was a little bit slow and a tad bit oafish), especially for those of the older generation.

Sometimes, he'd visit the neighbours houses (almost all of them were over fifties) and he'd offer to do their garden or just pop around for a chat. Either way, they welcomed him happily, even if most of them didn't approve of his strong American accent, and they sometimes even gave him a fiver for the chat. Alfred wasn't a judgemental person really (unless you really ticked him off) and he was as innocent as a baby which was why he was adorned so much by the people of Chard. Truth be told, he didn't just randomly go around old people's houses (the most un-teen thing to do) for the sake of it; he did it mostly because he was _bored _(and he was actually earning a hefty sum of money from it. Some of the kinder members of the community would sneakily slip him a crisp twenty after he'd completed a couple of chores for them, and he was eternally grateful for the financial support; Alfred was saving up for a laptop so he could study on the move at boarding school). Like, seriously bored. So much so, that he could cry sheer tears of boredom if he wanted to. Don't be mistaken, it wasn't that his grandmother and grandpa ignored him or anything – they fed him generously, with gaping portions of English breakfast at all points of the day, and sat with him in front of the old television to watch the news or any mildly scientific documentary that was on, and sometimes even helped him with his studying. He'd be doing his AS-levels next year, so he did still have to study during the summer holidays. But, that was _all _there was to do. Eat, sleep, study, watch TV…_it was so tedious. _

Somehow, Alfred had also managed to ease himself into a fitness regime. He did want to stay in a good condition, after all. Since he'd taken part in numerous after-school clubs whilst he'd been back in the States, mainly sports like football, baseball, soccer, (ice) hockey, basketball etc. He'd even tried a shot at boxing when he'd turned fifteen. To keep in a tip-top state to attempt all of the athletic activities, Alfred would normally be seen jogging around the high-rise flats or occasionally lifting weights at the gym. He could still recall when he'd first joined the football team – it had, no doubt, been his favourite sport to indulge in – as the tailback. He hadn't been the absolute fastest when he'd joined, at the ripe age of thirteen, but he'd been fast and had quick enough reactions to see a gap and go for it. The quarterback at the time had also seen he could pack a pretty heft punch if the time had ever called for it. After two years as the running back, Alfred had eventually replaced the old team leader, much to his glee and excitement. However, the memories became sour as he remembered how the word that he was gay had drowned out his previously popular reputation. On the pitch, he'd been deserted by the linemen, left to deal with the defensive team running him to the ground every chance they got, and there were a hell of a lot of chances.

Alfred seethed, hoping to forget the bitter memoirs as they left an unsavoury taste in his mouth. Somehow, he preferred going for a jog in the little neighbourhood of Chard rather than the bustling streets of New York, mainly because there were no people to avoid, nor were their cars honking at him if he tried to attempt jaywalking. He wouldn't usually try to cross the road in the Big Apple without using a zebra crossing unless it was really important. People in Britain honestly didn't seem to care either way. In fact, jaywalking was actually _legal_. It wouldn't have made much difference in the village in which his grandparents lived anyway – there was never any traffic! His typical exercise daily was a leisurely jog in the morning through the empty streets and perhaps down to the shopping street and recreational centre. It was a shame that there wasn't a gym anywhere close by, and an even bigger shame that there was nobody around whom Alfred could go running with either.

There were seldom any children in the area, and those that were, were just visiting their own grandparents for the weekend or something, and were at least three years his junior. As likeable as he was to young children too, he couldn't really spend any time with them. Thus, as much as he loathed it, he busied himself with long, tiring walks through the fields _alone_ and chores, chores and more chores. Vacuuming the lounge, scrubbing the sink in the kitchen, bleaching the toilet, making tea although it smelled undoubtedly foul, fetching a new carton of milk from the corner shop…

"Gramps! Gran! I'm home!" Alfred called as he opened the door and slunk out of his coat, still clutching the plastic bag with his fingers. "I got the milk!"

"Thanks, love," Poppy said gratefully, accepting the bag from his outstretched hand. That was another thing Alfred had picked up on whilst he was in England – not only was it rather boring to live in such a remote town, the people there called each other "_love_" and "_dear_." He'd heard sayings from drunkards in New York as they tried to mimic an English accent (poorly) and such, but he'd never thought that it would've actually been true or anything. He didn't even flinch as he noted his father was gone, _again_, to God knows where. According to "Gramps", James had always been insubordinate, wandering off at random hours to do the weirdest of things.

"That boy won't be told," the old man had said whilst reading through the newspaper and noticing that the drive was empty.

Alfred rolled his eyes – his father was always like that – and he just spent the rest of the day trying to busy himself around the house. Everything he did was mentally and physically wearisome, utterly mind-numbing, but if he sat on his bed and just did nothing, he feared he'd go insane. So he just continued to dust the television set, even though it was already spotless, in hopes that something interesting would magically pop up on the screen, even though it was just "_Who Do You Think You Are?_" After clicking through the various channels and deducing that '_Sherlock_', '_Doctor Who_' and '_Waterloo Road_' – some of the British TV shows that he actually liked – weren't going to be on until later, he flopped down on the couch, exhaling deeply. It was official; he was brain-dead. Alfred, never in his wildest dreams, would have ever wished for the summer holidays to be over so quickly.

"You alright, son?"

Alfred cast a glance over his shoulder, seeing his grandfather shuffle into the room with a fresh mug of steaming tea, probably made with the help of that milk he'd recently purchased.

"Yeah. Nothing's on the TV."

"There's plenty on the television if you'd bother to look," was the old man's reply as he settled into his armchair and reached over to grab the daily paper. "Or have you looked at the collection of books in the study yet? There's plenty of classics."

"Uh, I don't really read much Gramps." Alfred sat up and nervously scratched the back of his head. It wouldn't have surprised him much if his father hadn't mentioned his dyslexia. After all, it was just another "shameful" trait that the teen harboured, along with his homosexuality. In response to the statement, the elderly man snorted, ruffling his newspaper in disbelief.

"Don't be daft, boy," he chortled good-heartedly. "A great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives whilst reading."

"Yeah, sure. I just…don't really read much is all."

"I suggest '_To Kill a Mockingbird_' by Harper Lee. It's set in America and I reckon it'll do you well to read it at the age you are. Should be somewhere in the house."

Alfred stifled a groan. The last thing he wanted to do over the holiday was read. It was the bane of his life, and he really didn't understand why the hell his parents had forced him to take English Literature for AS-level. He knew he'd fail, and badly at that. Not only was the curriculum for schools in Britain quite unnecessary and silly, it was also more difficult than just getting a high school diploma or sitting ACTs. Here, he'd have to be examined on how he learned throughout the whole year and tested on subjects that he hardly knew about.

"I'm gonna go outside," Alfred announced, slinking through into the conservatory and into the back garden.

"Lunch'll be served in about a half hour," were his grandfather's final words, suggesting that he come home by then.

There wasn't really much else to do out there other than admire the impressive scenery and the cows speckling the field nearby, black and white splodges that barely moved other than to dip their necks and take more greedy mouthfuls of grass. The sun wasn't far from reaching its pinnacle, radiating rare heat on the pretty little flowers that stretched their petals upwards, silently greeting Alfred as he walked passed. The heat was enough to make him strip out of his jacket, revealing his jagged teen body beneath, hidden only by a simple T-shirt. Yes, Alfred was quite a "looker" thanks to the sports he often indulged himself in, but no, he didn't have rock-hard abs nor bulging muscles protruding from his upper and lower arms. His babyish face didn't always help with attracting potential flirt-buddies either. Where he'd inherited his sparkling eyes and honey-coloured hair from his father's side (including that one hair that adamantly _refused _to lay flat on his head), he'd obviously gotten his delicately childish features from his mother.

Wandering down through the village, waving towards neighbours and slinging his jacket over his shoulder as he walked, Alfred eventually halted by the fence that separated the country lane from the meadow of cows. A few, peeked by curiosity at the uncommon sight of a passing human stopping, trotted over to get a better look. Soon, the whole herd, attracted by the low grunting and the general movement, were lined up along the fence, sniffing anxiously at the teen. Alfred grinned; he may not have been in the Wild West that he'd seen so many times in the movies, but he could just imagine rounding up herds of cows whilst riding on his own long-legged horse, whooping and yelling loudly. He reached forwards, attempting to lightly lay his palm on a corn-coloured calf's forehead, but it shied away, eyes wide with fear. Those surrounding the youngster also took a hesitant step backwards, unused to being "petted."

Alfred, despite the obvious nervous aura emanating from the cattle, just smiled and retracted his hand, not wanting to scare them further. He could spend as much time as he wanted out here, basking in the sun's warmth and whistling to call the cows over. It may have been sad, but in some way, they kept him company in the unfamiliar environment. The deep, throaty sounds that escaped from their mouths were amusing and oddly comforting, and he liked the oafish look about their soft, idiotic faces. Cows certainly weren't plentiful on Manhattan Island.

Of course, his time with the cattle was short lived as he realized that Poppy would be dishing up lunch soon. Alfred foolishly bade a farewell to his gathered audience and rushed back to the bungalow where his food awaited, wondering meekly what would be perched on the dining table for him and whether his dad would be home yet. Suddenly, a thought occurred. _If he's home, he can teach me to drive, right? _After all, Alfred was sixteen now, so it was legal for him to drive and James _had _promised him that that would be his birthday present. Driving lessons. Simple, yet meaningful. If there was one thing that would make the holiday go by faster, it would be cruising around the countryside in a car, listening to the radio on full volume.

To his dismay, the car wasn't parked in the drive when he arrived back home and he pouted. _I'll just wait for him to get home_. _Then I'll bring it up. _

"I'm back!" Alfred yelled as he entered through the front door and kicked his shoes off in the corner.

"It's about time!" Poppy answered, her voice drifting from the kitchen. "Your soup's getting cold."

_Soup? In summer? _The teen shrugged – his grandmother's cooking was always top-notch so it didn't really matter what he ate. As he seated himself at the dinner table, he stared uncertainly at the limey-green broth served in front of him. It didn't look _terrible_, but it didn't particularly look appetizing either, despite the tantalizing smell that was already doing wonders to his taste buds.

"Eh, what kind of soup is it?" he asked as politely as he could, eyeing it carefully.

"Potato and leek. It's a Welsh and Irish delicacy," she answered.

"Welsh? Irish?"

"Good God, don't you know your geography?" his grandfather joked before realizing that Alfred was serious. "Oh. Wales is a country across the Severn and Ireland is a large island across the Irish Sea."

Alfred paused a moment, frowning and furrowing his eyebrows before taking a tentative sip. Before long, he was devouring it hungrily along with his bread. Food was hardly ever wasted on Alfred and if he decided he liked something, it would be gone within seconds. His grandfather's explanation had been pretty much wasted on him though. Who ever thought of naming a country after a whale? And actually calling an island "Island?" It was official; people in Britain were crazy. They could've at least thought of a more interesting name.

The rest of the day was pretty much the definition of boring. The only thing that kept Alfred sane was the thought of his father returning home and teaching him to drive. Otherwise, he just seated himself in his room and flicked through a few comics, ignoring his grandfather's advice on reading an actual book. That was probably one of the last things he wanted to do. As for studying – he pushed himself through a few pages of his AP Mathematics textbook, but that was all he could manage before he slumped down on his bed and decided it was too tedious to be doing on a holiday. Yeah, he genuinely enjoyed Maths but sometimes it was just too much effort.

…

"Alfred?"

"Urghg…"

His duvet crumpled and twisted beneath his body, Alfred titled his head, his vision blurred as he understood that he'd dozed off whilst he'd been waiting for his dad to get home. Heaving himself upwards with the help of his hands, he stopped when he was in a relatively comfortable sitting position. His glasses seemed to have fallen in amongst his pillow as he'd slept as they were wedged between the plump cushions that he'd been cuddling moments ago. Alfred rubbed his face, grating himself roughly until he was properly awake, before fetching them and plonking them back in their original place.

"Are you alright, dear?" Poppy asked worriedly, chewing her lower lip as she moved through the room and held her hand up to his forehead. "You're not ill, are you?"

"No, Gran," was his reply. "Just a little tired."

"Okay. Dinner's going to be served soon."

_Dinner!? How long was I asleep for!? _Once his grandmother had departed for the kitchen, he risked a glance at the clock on his desk. The numbers were clear enough – 8:00pm. _Six hours!? Huh…_That just goes to show how boring it could be in Somerset, especially when one was living with their grandparents. Usually, Alfred would've passed time by talking with Matthew or going out with friends to play some baseball or football. _Matthew_. The younger twin sighed, remembering his brother with an acute sense of sadness. He vaguely wondered if he was suffering the same problems in France. It wasn't like Alfred was lonely or anything but…well, talking with his grandparents was awkward. Despite living with them for a month, he still barely knew them and although they were more than happy to uphold a conversation with him, there just didn't seem to be anything to talk about, other than his life in New York. Sure, he had fond memories of his old life, but that was why he didn't want to recall anything; he knew he wouldn't be going back there for a long time, so why hover on the past?

Letting a heavy sigh escape from his throat, Alfred trudged through into the dining room. Of course, his grandfather had already seated himself, sipping yet _another _cup of tea. In fact, the scent of tea wreathed around the room like poison, stifling and unearthly. Alfred's nose wrinkled. The smell was unfamiliar from the sharpness of coffee and he didn't particularly like it.

"Nice nap?" his grandpa asked between gulps as the teen pulled up a chair for himself.

"Yeah. Say, is Dad back yet?"

"Yes, I'm back," said man confirmed whilst taking a seat next to his son. "Why?"

Alfred jumped, surprised by the sudden appearance of his father. "You said you'd teach me to drive when I was sixteen, right?"

An oppressive silence settled upon the family, interrupted only by the rhythmic clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen and the clink of cutlery on plates. _Oh God, don't tell me he's forgotten. _Maybe his father wasn't the most loving or attentive parent in the world towards him, but Alfred just wouldn't be able to fathom the circumstances if his dad said he wouldn't teach him to drive. He'd been waiting for this moment for years!

"Um, my birthday was in July…" he prompted desperately.

James paused, fixing the boy with a look that he didn't quite understand. "We'll talk about it after dinner."

Before Alfred had a chance to argue, Poppy had laid a platter of food in front of him that he just couldn't refuse. It looked like a Cornish pasty, crisp and golden and hiding the deliciously prepared beef within its shell. A generous dollop of baked beans accompanied it, along with a splattering of salad and chips. Needless to say, Alfred tucked in instantly. He'd noted how late the Brits seemed to have dinner or tea or whatever-they-called-it. It was a little odd, but he supposed it was alright. As long as he was getting fed, he was happy.

The plate didn't particularly need cleaning by the time the American was done with it, as it had been scraped clean by his fork. He relaxed a little, thoroughly satisfied whilst he helped his grandmother to clean up the table. Piling the dishes into the sink and stopping only to fetch himself a drink of water (although it tasted bland and uninteresting), Alfred excitedly pursued his dad into the lounge to question him about driving lessons.

"Hey, Pops!" he greeted. "So, about the driving –"

"I can't teach you how to drive."

Perhaps it was the curt tone that stung his ears or the air of finality that his father so abruptly left in wake of his dismissive words, but Alfred didn't quite comprehend what he'd been told until a full minute had ticked by. And when he did, instant bemusement struck both his mind and face. It was so easy to read the boys emotions; he was just like a book, wide open and ready for reading. He froze, struggling to maintain a casual smile and guessing that James was just joking. He wasn't a stranger when it came to being funny, after all.

"Huh? What do you mean?" Alfred questioned after a while with the absence of laughter.

"The legal age that you can learn to drive in Britain is seventeen. I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you."

_Seventeen…_

"No way," Alfred denied immediately, folding his arms across his chest. "You told me you were going to teach me how to drive when I was _sixteen_."

"Yeah, well, the law's different over here," James muttered, seemingly tired as he flicked through the newspaper his own father had been reading a few hours before. "There's nothing I can do about it." Once again, that aging tone of conclusiveness slipped into his last words, controlling and clearly stating that the conversation was over. Although James Jones was indeed an easy-going and talkative person, one trait that Alfred hadn't inherited (or had yet to show) was that irritating, too-rational imperiousness. Maybe he was a little arrogant or childish or whatever, but he didn't fling superiority wherever he walked. Instead, contrary to his unruly, child-like appearance, he had turned out more like his reserved, shy mother (without the reserved, shy parts, of course). But, if one thing was certain about Alfred's personality, it was his hard-headed stubbornness.

"But…" he protested weakly. "But, that's not _fair_."

And his immaturity.

"Alfred, that's _enough_."

_There's that tone again. _

"No!" the teen whinged, gritting his teeth behind his lips. He hardly cared how foolish he looked or how much similarity he had to a four-year-old right then – he just wanted this _one _thing. _To learn to drive. Is that so hard to ask!? _Alfred had always known how wayward his father was and how he'd often make promises that he couldn't, or just wouldn't, keep but he wouldn't simply let this be another exception. "You _promised_."

"Look, Alfred." An eerie sternness entered into James' voice, out-of-place and unfamiliar. So much so that it stopped the teenager's whining the moment he uttered those words. "It's against the _law_. You can whinge and moan all you want about it, but it won't change. I'll teach you how to drive next year, when you're seventeen, okay?"

"But –"

"That's _final_."

Despite the obvious end to the debate, Alfred lingered in the room for a few minutes longer, struggling to think of something – _anything _– to say. He didn't want to believe that his dad could do something so…so…cruel? Callous? Was that the right word to use? To promise his son something, then wrench it from his grasp. It wouldn't be the first time it had happened though, although Alfred was hardly ever on the receiving end of such empty oaths. It was usually his mother who'd been disappointed at the insolence of her husband.

"You're lying," he muttered.

"What?"

"I said, _you're – lying_."

Balling up his hands into tight, whitened fists, Alfred tried to bite back the hurt hostility in his voice. He had a temper, as shown by his younger self whenever he threw a tantrum, and it was a terrible one at that. Maybe it wasn't so wrathful now – more injured than anything else – but if the disagreement escalated further, his clumsy hands might just break something. Last time it had been a schoolboy's nose for yelling "fag" as he walked down the corridor. Not that his father had ever called him that, but Alfred could already feel his anger and resentment bubbling beneath his skin.

"Lying? What would I lie for?" James questioned sharply.

Alfred hesitated deliberately. "Because you hate me."

"Don't be stu-"

"You'd teach Mattie to drive!"

The words were out before he could stop them, already wreaking havoc in the innocent little lounge. Alfred cursed inwardly, hating where the conversation was going. _It's too late to stop now thought…but, if I just walk away…? _That could've been a better option – leave the room and whittle away his misery somewhere else. Nonetheless, pride rooted his feet to the ground.

"What are you talking about?" James sounded tired and frustrated. He knew his son was hot-headed and rash, but he'd never heard this before.

"But you would though! You've always liked him better than me anyway!"

"Alfred, stop being so childish."

"I'm not being childish! I just _know _that you'd favour Mattie over me and you'd teach him to drive. Just…._why _won't you teach me to drive!?"

"I've already said, _I can't_. It's against the law in Britain to drive before you're _seventeen._"

The words that waited to leap forth from Alfred's mouth burned, churning hotly in the depths of his throat. He part his lips again, searching for those words that he longed to spew into his father's face, but all that came was a low, exasperated growl. Something inside wanted him to cry, and he could already feel the hot tears pricking his eyes. _No! Don't cry. Not in front of him. _Alfred would never forgive himself if he let it go in front of his dad. As much as he wanted to scream and yell and shout out his anger and "hatred" (perhaps that word's a bit too strong to use as feelings being conveyed towards his own dad), he didn't. He held it down and just clamped his teeth over the inside of his cheek, praying it would quell the raging fury that threatened to burst at any second.

"You…-you…!" Alfred stuttered, before giving up and storming out of the room, past his gran (who was just stood awkwardly in the corridor, half-scared, half-worried), and inside his only sanctuary in the house. As much as he didn't want to upset his grandparents, he couldn't stop the sudden bout of hasty violence as he wrenched the door shut, earning a few shudders from the adjoining walls and a loud slamming sound that, not only echoed around the whole house, but thrummed in his head over and over. Yes, Alfred was sick of his dad and yes, perhaps he'd been too rash and too immature, but he believed that he had a right to. At the very least, he should be angry, shouldn't he? Broken promises weren't something that was too recent, but it wasn't a nice feeling, having your dreams crushed like that. Or, in Alfred's case, withheld for another year.

"Stupid," he murmured raggedly, tugging his T-shirt off over his head with my force than necessary as his glasses clattered onto the bedside table. He was unsure whether he was referring to James or himself. Nonetheless, he continued with chucking his clothes on the floor (which was, surprisingly, quite clean since he had nothing better to do in the day other than tidy his room – he'd probably fold his outfit away when he'd calmed down a bit) and slowly peeling himself into his pyjamas, all the while muttering under his breath. If Matthew were here, he'd definitely be venting and ranting at him about how unfair their dad was being. _But Mattie's not here, is he? _Alfred sighed, not realizing how lonely his existence would be without his twin. Burying himself under the duvets, he bit back sour tears as he quickly burrowed his head into a pillow; one with a skilful union jack design inked on the front.

_It's August now. It'll only be about two weeks until school starts and I can see him again. _

Two weeks too long.

Even when he dove further under the warm bedsheets, and kicked them off again because it was proving to be too hot and stuffy in the summer heat that flooded through the darkened window, Alfred couldn't sleep. He breathed in the musty smell of his room, still holding a few unaccustomed scents that he didn't recognise, hoping that it would quell his aching mind and racing thoughts. However, his brain was still working in overdrive and he muttered irately, twitching anxiously on the bed. Furling and unfurling his body proved to be futile too. He was just as, if not more, sleepless than before. Suddenly, there was a hollow knock at the door.

"Alfred?" _Poppy. _"It's me. Can I come in?"

He didn't make a move to open the door himself, nor did he utter a word and simply turned his head the other way as the door creaked open. Thin slivers of light erupted in the corner of his vision, proving that the light in the hallway was on and vibrant. They soon disappeared as the door slipped shut again.

"Are you alright? It can get quite hot in here."

No reply.

"I'll turn the radiator off."

Sure enough, the low hiss of radiating heat soon started to gargle out of existence, replaced by the click of the switch that Poppy was probably turned with her softly gnarled hands. After a brief silence, save the '_tep tep_' of someone's feet shuffling across the carpet, an added pressure to the side of the bed told Alfred that his gran was most definitely sitting there.

"I know you're angry, but your father means well."

_You hardly know my father._

"It's been hard for you; moving, being separated from your brother. But, it'll get better."

Alfred tried to not to snort. _No, it won't. _

"Just to think…I only met you a month ago, and you'll be moving again, this time to a boarding school."

There was a lingering sadness in her voice, mingling with a welcomed grief that sounded like it had been there for a long time. In an odd way, it made Alfred pity the woman. She sounded incredibly old, and he was sure that if he bothered to tilt his head and look, he'd have seen the lines drawn heavily across her face, adding age and sorrow to her features.

"You'll be learning so many new things. Everything must be going so fast. You'll be doing you're A levels."

Oh God, there was that weird word again. What exactly were A levels anyway? What did they stand for?

"Nevermind…good night, dear."

Something soft tickled the side of his face, as a gentle pressure was applied to the side of his forehead. He could only guess that it was his grandmother leaning over to give him a kiss good night as her hair lightly brushed along his head – a regular ritual that had commenced most times he fell asleep. Not that he minded though. Despite the general gawkiness that he felt from the close proximity of his grandma, she was still his grandma and it was a little touch of familial affection that made him feel _loved_. His mother had been a generally caring person, but most of her fondness was directed towards Matthew anyway. There was a big difference between watching love being delivered and being on the receiving end. It was amazing how much warmer you felt, even if it was just a glance and not an embrace.

In a heartbeat, she was gone, taking the scent of lavender with her. The door creaked, but Alfred hardly heard the handle clunk into place as he twisted himself further into the mess of sheets. His gaze drifted to the window as it was the only thing in front of his eyes that was actual mildly interesting to look at. He had no idea what time it was and he really couldn't be bothered to check, even if it would just be a simple movement of the head. Through the miniscule sliver in the curtains, the window glinted against the dim light cast by the moon high up in the sky. Silvery luminosities danced across Alfred's cheeks. From his tired vision, the light was split into azure shapes that flickered every now and then, resembling car headlights. He squinted, purposefully trying to trying to create a new perspective to look at; little specks of disjointed brightness swam psychedelically across the scope of the little room through his half-opened eyes, mesmerizingly beautiful with the intriguing, square-shaped patterns that they made. Sometimes there can be beauty in the unseeing too.

_What time is it?_

Alfred risked a glance at the clock. 10:36pm. _Holy crap! How long have I been lying here? _He didn't want to answer that question. No matter how many times he curled up and tried to drift off to dreamland, something kept wrenching him back. Why was his brain in hyper-drive all of a sudden? He seriously hated it when that happened. He'd have welcomed sleep with open arms if he would just _stop thinking _for a few seconds. For some reason, his chest seemed to have clenched a little too. It _hurt_.

Wanting nothing more than to just close his eyes and pray that they actually stayed shut, Alfred just grimaced and sat up amongst the ocean of quilts. He fingers brushed his hair out of his face – he didn't even want to imagine how dishevelled he looked right then. Groaning as though he had a hangover or something mentally draining like that, he took another glance at the bedside alarm. It was nearing eleven o'clock, and he wasn't even tired enough to sleep. _It must've been the argument. _Alfred may have had his moments when he'd been younger, but this felt different. He'd told his father the blatant truth, and it had just been brushed away like it was a troublesome bug. The teen hissed. _Why can't he be more considerate of others!? _

Knowing he wouldn't be getting much sleep that night, Alfred eased himself out of the sheets and proceeded to change clothes again. Since his pyjamas simply consisted of shorts and a white T-shirt, he just pulled on a red jacket and some jeans. And his glasses, of course. Couldn't forget the useless things; old habits die hard. A late night walk wasn't really out-of-the-ordinary in such a small town, and he thought it wouldn't hurt for him to get some fresh air to clear his head. The house was quiet. Very quiet. Alfred guessed that everyone must've gone to bed, however, his assumptions were proven wrong when he tip-toed past the study and saw his dad typing furious at the laptop. Consumed with whatever he was doing, he didn't notice his son silently watching him from the doorway, a scowl etched on his face.

Alfred knew that if he was caught up at this hour, he'd most definitely get shouted at, but he didn't make a move to go back to his room. No, he was too busy staring, not only at his dad and trying half-heartedly to guess what he was doing so late, but at the cork board to his left which was lined with pins and keys dangling from them. The key to the front door, the key to the conservatory, the key to the back garden through the utility door…_the car keys. _Hanging right by his face, they gleamed teasingly. They mocked him, _taunted _him, daring the teenager to reach out and grab them. _I could…_

He froze, noticing just how little space there was between his outstretched fingers and the maliciously glinting keys. James hadn't moved from his hunched over position, but somehow, Alfred knew just how easy it would be for him to turn and see the precarious position he'd put himself in. If he grabbed the keys and ran through the door, he might just have enough time to start the engine and go. He'd seen his dad do it so many times before. But…was he really up to it? Driving a car? Was his need for vengeance really that great? He gulped, openly expressing the guilty thoughts of doubt that flashed through his mind. It was simple, really. So, why didn't his fingers _move_.

A throaty cough from James jolted Alfred's thought and he flinched, sweat glistening on his forehead. _Just do it, just do it, just do it. _His heart thumped, jittering and sputtering like an old jeep roaring across miles and miles of sandy terrain. Inside the jeep, Alfred was driving, sat back and admiring the wide open spaces that were free for him and his vehicle to roam. The joys of driving could've been so far away, yet they were within grasp. The only obstacle was the threat of James hearing the jangling keys and the front door, which was probably still locked. If anything, Alfred would have to grab both the car keys, _and _the door keys. _If I do it one time, I'll do it again…_

Driven by some sense of stupid courage, or perhaps the longing of something that was close, yet so far away, Alfred closed the gap between his hand and the keys in less than a heartbeat. He moved too fast and his clumsy fingers were careless as they grasped the front door key and he stifled a breath. Luckily, since it was just one key, it didn't clink against anything, and he scraped it from the pin easily. Nonetheless, Alfred backed away, clutching it to his chest. If he was really careful, he could just unlock the door and be on his way. But he'd never forgive himself if he let such a perfect opportunity go, barricaded by his own childish fear.

The car seemed to wink at him through the study window from under the streetlight, daring him to reach out and grab the other set of keys. Alfred frowned, his eyebrows knitted together in frustration. They were still there, tempting him closer and closer. He _wanted_ them. They wouldn't just unlock the car; they would unlock his _freedom_. In desperation, he started to reach for them again, only to stiffen when he noticed his dad moving. Coughing under his breath, the man arose from his chair and stretched, making low crooning sounds from the satisfying feeling of his muscles stretching after leaning over the laptop for so long.

"Look at the time…" he mused softly to himself. He started to turn. Alfred was still frozen. _Shit! _

Ungainly with terror, Alfred's digits had no time to act, closing around the car keys and being wrenching backwards as he tripped to the side, praying that the clinking metal and the sound of his rear end meeting the carpet wouldn't be enough to arouse suspicion.

"What was that?" his dad muttered, and although Alfred couldn't see it from his place on the floor, skilfully hidden out of view of the doorframe, he could imagine his father turning to try and see what had made the sound. _Please don't see me, please don't see me, please don't see me, please…_ Curling into a ball and almost cradling the keys against his chest, Alfred didn't dare to move as he felt the soft vibrations on the floor as his father moved from the study to the hall. _Oh shit…he's standing right above me…_ sure enough, James Jones was standing less than a metre from Alfred and looking dreamily into the conservatory, half expecting some spectre to be wandering amongst the glass dome. Had he spared a few seconds to look at the darkened floor to his left, he'd have seen his son, hunched tightly over his knees in the corner. However, James, after deducing that the sound was nothing but his imagination, stretched one last time and continued on his way to bed.

Alfred, although he heard the footsteps receding, remained motionless on the floor for a while longer, firstly to steady his breathing, then to check that the corridor was truly empty and nobody would lie in wait when he moved his neck. Minutes ticked by before he dared to move, unfurling his fingers to admire the glittering keys in his grasp. Then, he stirred completely, rising carefully to his feet in the silent house. It, along with Alfred, held its breath, awaiting the next stage; open the door. Lumbering hands tried and failed multiple times to insert the key into the lock. It clinked against the edges until it finally slotted in and the door unlocked with a satisfying _'clunk.' _Although the click of the tumblers moving within the bowels of the door should've been nothing more than a whispering murmur, it sounded more like the very stars had fallen from the sky and were exploding like bombs throughout the whole house – it was so _loud_. Alfred flinched, casting a fearful glance over his shoulder. _Would he dare to open the door? _

Pale from the sheer…_rebelliousness _of his decision, the blond clasped his hand too tightly over the handle and yanked it down, shivering as it creaked under the strength of his fingers. _Now…open. The. Door. _As he pulled the door towards him, the hinges squealing deafeningly, something started to burn within his chest. It didn't hurt at all, yet it wasn't the type of warming feeling that he got whenever someone said something especially kind or he witnessed an act of heroic benevolence on the television – in fact, Alfred had felt this kind of feeling before. It was the animosity of a teenager disobeying their parents. Oh, what a feeling! Its core was in the centre of his chest, but as he stepped cautiously through the arch and closed the door behind him, almost forgetting to lock it, it started to crawl through his shoulders and ooze down his arms. It thawed the ice that had settled in his stomach and tingled in his legs, blazing through him and warming him internally.

Despite the fresh, night air that pierced his skin like chilling needs and the sting of frost on his nose, Alfred felt _alive_. Externally, he was freezing, regretting his decision in just wearing a jacket as the cold pinched at his chest and arms, but internally, this feeling of warm water dribbling with the consistency of melted chocolate through his veins reached even his toes and the very tips of his ears. It was such a wonderful feeling, and it reflected in the sheen of his eyes as he admired the stars – sentinels the kept watch in the night. Magnificent in their bursts of colourless radiance, they winked down at him, shining in all shades of brightness next to the alabaster moon, which had been reduced to just a sliver of chrome amongst the darkness. Eerie, unwelcoming…_beautiful. _

Alfred could've spent hours just standing there, basking in the lunar and stellar light, mixed with artificial streetlamps, but he had another goal. In his hands, clammy with sweat, were the car keys. Originally, the American had just wanted to go for a simple walk around Chard, but now he had _the _car keys. He could _drive._ He could do whatever he wanted, right there and then. And _nobody _could stop him. That warmth that crept through his skin flared even hotter than before, rippling through his veins and threatening to burst out of his eyes. They glittered, reflecting the stars' lustre, but with much more vivacity and vigour. His pupils eyed the car in all its metallic marvel, ravenously, yearningly, guiltily.However, his culpability was outnumbered by those feelings are arduous delight that he could just reached out, open the car and do as he pleased. Who cared if his dad would be unbelievably pissed when he got home? Who cared that he'd be shouted at?

Alfred had always lived in the moment, and his mentality wasn't going to change tonight or any time else. He would so what he wanted and accept the circumstances later. As the irritating girls in his old high school used to say: YOLO. _You Only Live Once. _

Branding that statement that he'd grown to loathe yet love at the same time in his mind, Alfred continued on his way to the car. It wasn't anything ravishing or special, with rusted splodges of mud speckling the underbelly and a dim coating of silvery paint where a glossy, metallic sheen used to once glow. But, it was a car and that was exactly what the teen was looking for. He paused, contemplating his next move as his fingers brushed against the bitterly cold door; it had the consistency of ice, hard and glassy, almost mimicking a mirror even though it wasn't transparent. Staring back at himself through the grubby glass of the window was Alfred's own reflection, quivering every so often thanks to the chill in the air and the overall fear of his actions. Standing directly below a streetlight, he was in view of the whole neighbourhood. _Not a good position for stealing a car. _

Ah, but he wasn't stealing it. He was _borrowing _it. There was a difference between the two. Nonetheless, Alfred knew he had to alter his position, and after casting a wary glance down the road, he pressed the tip of his thumb onto the mechanic device that opened the doors. Sure enough, the headlights flashed briefly, and a high-pitched honking sound emanating from the vehicle itself signalled that the car was indeed open. The noise carried across the frost-bitten wind, its resonance bouncing down the little street and threatening to drag people from their beds. Alfred, cringing and gritting his teeth at the disturbance, gently clasped the door in his hand and pulled it open, praying that it wouldn't creak. Of course, that was stupid – for the month that he'd been with his grandparents, the car door to the driver's side had never creaked.

One thing that the American noticed as he swung himself into the body of the vehicle and softly closed the door behind him: _I'm on the wrong side!? _Unused to the accustoms of British driving, he eyed the numerous buttons and equipment in front of him with bemusement. _Calm down. It's easy, see? _Shoving the key into the ignition and turning it sharply until the engine shuddered to life with a garish groan, he sat back and followed the steps that he'd seen his own father go through. The car jolted forwards with a roar, forcing Alfred to slam his foot down on what he assumed to be the brake. Guessing correctly, he lurched forwards, barely avoiding hitting his forehead on the steering wheel. _Right. Seatbelt. _Clipping himself in before he flew forwards through the windscreen, Alfred exhaled deeply and started on his journey, the great metal death-trap pulling away from the pavement and jittering off into the night.

**...xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**A/N:**

_A dramatic ending! Leaves you on tenterhooks, right? At least it's different to all of those other boring endings that are just like, "Wow, I _reeeaaaalllly _want to know what's going to happen next." That was sarcasm unless you didn't know. I always wanted to write a US/UK fic with a bit of religion and ethics involved, but I decided that Arthur and Alfred's meeting must be something embarrassing and memorable. I just adore those love/hate relationships. So, that's kind of what I was going for when I started plotting this out.  
Woot, I got my first anonymous review! Yup, I always get super excited about reviews, whether they're anonymous or not. _

_Anyway, I just want to put this out there because I feel like it's bothersome. I was debating whether Alfred should be born in New York or somewhere in Virginia (because Virginia was the first American state to be discovered and named), but I decided to make it New York because I wanted there to be a massive contrast between where Alfred used to live and where his grandparents live. It seems I've chosen the location at random, but I did think it through! I mean, the peaceful countryside county of Somerset would be different to the bustling city of New York, right? Right. _

_I never really understood why people in America could learn to drive so young. Our age is seventeen, but across the pond it's sixteen, hm? Wow, I find that quite young. Anyway, I don't have much to say, other than a quick thankyou to the anonymous reviewer!_

_Jul-chan557:  
Thank you very much for leaving such a nice review! It seriously made my day :D_

_Please leave a review! It's be extremely grateful!  
Thanks for reading! :)_


	5. Chapter 5

**..xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Part V**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

The Kirkland house was quiet, still and holding its breath. Not a creature or being was disturbed within the corridors or bedrooms, nor were there any whispers trundling down the hallways. Not so early in the morning. The walls may have muttered to each other, and the trees outside may have creaked and groaned, either in relief at the warmth of summer or in pain of their aching limbs. Either way, the house was full, but silent. However, this may have been a white lie, for something was indeed stirring, bare feet slapping noiselessly on wooden floorboards and fuzzy carpets. Although there was no sound, there was movement.

The movement belonged to none other than Arthur, patrolling the hallways of the ancient manor sluggishly, pits of shadow beneath his eyes and a sickly parlour dusted upon his cheeks. Eyes glassed over with some grime that made him look everywhere at once, he gripped the banister for support as he lugged himself down the staircase, returning from yet another trip to the bathroom to squeeze out (what he hoped was) the last vomit from his stomach. Exhaustion rimmed his features, as did pain and frustration. Dragging his small frame across the entrance hall, he collapsed on the couch in the lounge, massaging his aching temples.

_Perhaps I shouldn't have gone drinking last night._

Arthur vaguely remembered following the usual routine yesterday: playing guitar, going for a ride, homework and sneaking out…but then it was blank, replaced by flickering images of him and the others crouched around a fire and passing around giant bottles of alcohol. Followed by…_argh_…_ah, yes, that was it_…they had run through the forests like hooligans, screeching bloody murder as they let the poisoned drink take hold of their brains. Rain had battered their bodies, but they hadn't cared. Shrieking, jumping, whooping to the moon as they sprinted over fields and took refuge in abandoned barns and run-down sheds. There was nothing else left, save the pounding reminder of his antics last night that resonated with each throb of his head.

Arthur groaned, risking a glance at the time. _6:37am_. After somehow wandering back home and barely managing to climb the branches to the spindling tree outside his bedroom window and haul himself back inside, the teen's brain had been reluctant to fall asleep, to the point that he'd given up and retired to the bathroom where he could relieve his churning stomach, mixed with an unhealthy amount of toxic chemicals that it desperately needed to rid itself of. And, now there was the tightness in his chest. _Did I smoke last night? I can't remember…_ He deduced that he must have been inhaling some sort of substance, thanks to the crispy, and slightly grainy texture residing in his mouth, the bittersweet smell of his fingertips and the general taste of ash on his teeth. Arthur had never taken drugs before (not that he could actually recall), and he seriously hoped that he hadn't been foolish enough to last night. However, he could never be sure nowadays thanks to his drinking habits.

The alcohol was still half-poignant in his brain, playing tricks with his vision and messing up his balance, thus why he'd decided to sit down and just moan for the next few moments. It didn't seem like his stomach had anything more to regurgitate and he was immensely thankful for that as his throat felt like it had been rubbed raw with grit. Dazed and practically wallowing in his own stench of booze, Arthur curled into a tight ball. He knew that his parents wouldn't wake until at least 9:00am (as it was the holidays), but he didn't want to take chances and only lay there from a full half hour until he dared to move again.

Sniffling piteously, since the night had been unnaturally cold and wet, Arthur dragged himself back up the stairs and to his bedroom where he could hoard his saturated, beer-scented, ragged clothes until he deemed it safe to wash them himself. He never trusted his mother to do his laundry unless she suspected something from the many grimy stains on his jeans. Shortly after skilfully hiding his jacket, T-shirt and trousers in a wicker basket nestled within the bottom compartment of his wardrobe, Arthur retired to the bathroom that he shared with Dylan (and now Allistor, as he decided (or rather, had been forced) to join the family for the summer) to take a proper shower and rid himself of the dirt that clung to his limbs and feet for good. A hot, steaming bathe was just what he needed after a long, eventful night, of which he could never fully recollect.

Water thrummed rhythmically on his back, painting a melody of its own as it sprung from the tiles walls and curtain, thoroughly drenching the naked body that stood beneath it. Bedraggled and utterly exhausted, Arthur pressed his arm up against the cold tiles, slightly surprised at the contrast between the boiling water and the frozen wall, to steady himself . Resting his forehead upon the soft skin, he brushed a hand over the tattoo on his lower back – he'd grown accustomed to feeling the odd sensation of the skin there now, and often went through a daily ritual of following the curves with the tips of his digits. It no longer stung or ached, and the skin wasn't sore or infected. The parlour had done a good job.

As he leaned his head against the wall, hoping that the coolness of the tiles would offer some relief to his hangover, Arthur half-listened at the sounds of his older brother stirring in the next room. From the groan of the bed, he guessed that Allistor was just getting up, and the gentle thumps on the floor signalled that he was moving to get dressed in some clothes that he could freely walk about the house in without showing too much skin. Arthur and Allistor had always had a somewhat strained relationship, and it wasn't improving. Arthur _hated _the way the self-proclaimed Scotsman would intrude on his lifestyle, leaning back oh-so-calmly on the wall and pressing yet another cigar to his lips. _Arrogant. Intimidating. Obnoxious. _Arthur seethed. 

He was anxious – _eager_, in fact – to finally be rid of this place for good. Just two more abhorrent weeks and he'd be up in Yorkshire, via train, enjoying education in a new school to its fullest. From the looks of the website, it offered some very nice facilities, especially for boarding Sixth Formers. _God, please deliver me from this place soon. _An ironic prayer, since the oppression of his parents' stifling religion was exactly what he was trying to escape. Arthur's faith was wavering; he knew, but he didn't care. It was just another thing in his life that would get weaker, and might diminish in the coming years, _if_ he let it get that far. A sharp spasm of pain shot through his head, producing a hiss from his mouth and his fingers to probe gently at his temples again. The shower was too hot, stuffy and closing in around him, roasting him as if he was some sort of meat that was to be cooked in an oven until tender.

Arthur decided to take his exit, the cold air greeted his naked skin as soon as he pulled back the curtain. Reluctant to engage in any unfortunate interaction with any one of his brothers that morning, he rushed to his room immediately, his only haven (save the stables) for the last two months. Once inside, he took it upon himself to firmly lock the door and settle himself into some clothes for the day. Hair dripping into the towel he'd slung around his shoulders, he observed what was left. Naturally, in his impatience to leave (anyone would've thought he was going to university rather than a boarding school. Then again, it _could _count as college) he'd thrust most of his possessions into his suitcase already, leaving only the bare essentials that he'd be needing in the upcoming fortnight: clothes, revision books, notepads to revise in and from, ordinary novels to immerse himself in etc.  
His room didn't look much different than before really. Arthur was so neat (in fact, he was terrifyingly neat – it was beginning to border on OCD), hardly anything was ever in view. The only noticeable difference was the emptiness of his bookshelf, as he had shoved most of his classics into his bag too, until he was left with '_To Kill a Mockingbird_', which rested on his desk, a bookmark nestled between clusters of pages, '_Don Quixote_', which was what he claimed as "one of the greatest classics of all time" and '_Clarissa', _which he _still _hadn't finished despite wasted hours of staying up late at night thanks to its impossible length.

Arthur simply plopped himself down in his chair, dusted some droplets from his hair and tried (unwillingly) to read over his History revision notes. He had already memorized most of the facts by heart, but there was no harm in checking. Unfortunately, his pounding headache offered no reprieve and he eventually gave up trying to recall what date _Kristallnacht _was, even though it was something he seriously should have known. _The Night of Broken Glass…some time in…argh…November…and the year was 1938…_…

Knowing that a remedy for hangovers that he'd made himself was somewhere in the depths of the stables, Arthur eventually rose from his chair, pulled on a jacket and started back through the halls of the house. As he feared, Allistor was awake, as was Niall and even Peter. _Perfect. _He could deduce that much from their bedroom doors, which hung upon slightly and revealed ruffled, empty bedsheets sprawled across mattresses. Each step took him further from the gush of the shower water, and he peered over the balcony to check that nobody was in the entrance hall. From the spastic sound of jittering electricity, he guessed that one of the brothers was in the lounge, watch television. Or perhaps listening to the radio. Confident that he wouldn't be stopped, Arthur crept across the floorboards, cursing his stumbling, half-drunken steps and thanking the wood for the quietness of each breath it whimpered as he stepped upon it.

Finally, he had reached the porch, tugged on some black boots and was outside, greeting the rare sunshine with graceless happiness. Each steps stomped upon the earth too hard, leaving an imprint in the soggy ground. It had rained last night; that would be a reason for Arthur's rosy cheeks and constant sniffling. A few streaks of feathery clouds covered the risen sun, translucent and barely allowing much of the multi-coloured light to burst upon the rolling countryside. They resembled paper, crimson coating their edges and lining the holes where fragments of amber had burned through. The remains of charred paper drifted listlessly about the ocean-blue atmosphere, dots of cloud that floated to nowhere. Arthur would've admired the breath-taking scenery were his home was had his head not started to throb precisely at the moment he had opened the door.

_Shit, that hurts…_

Following a sickly snuff, the blond tripped and lurched down through the grove of ancient trees to where the lonely stable sat. He could probably get away with ingesting a few gulps of his homemade hangover remedy (which, to be honest, tasted like crap) and perhaps groom the horses before his parents would wonder why he wasn't in the house revising. It didn't look like he'd be able to squeeze in any riding or guitar playing until later. And he certainly didn't want to indulge himself with the illegally acquired booze in the state that he was in – just the scent of alcohol to one with a hangover was enough to make his stomach to cartwheels. No, just the _thought _of the stash of secret beer made him want to blow chunks.

Even though he couldn't feel the bile in his throat, Arthur rose tentative fingers to his lips to mentally push down the vomit that threatened to start churning again in his vacant stomach. He severely hoped that it wouldn't. Somehow, splurging everything that you'd eaten and drunk in the last forty-eight hours wasn't a pleasant feeling. He faltered through the stable doors, dropping to his knees in the tack room with blessed maladroitness. Brain spinning, inept digits dragged out a bottle of foul, grimy green liquid, unlabelled and strangely thick. Mixed with an essence of tea and aspirin, an uncouth scent escaped into the atmosphere when he loosened the lid. Wrinkling his nose, Arthur took a swig, hardly pausing for breath as the sludge entered his mouth and bubbled on his tongue.

Unbearably sour, he struggled not to spew it all over the cobblestone floor and set the bottle down in its usual hiding place; behind the bucket of musty reins that were either broken or too small to fit comfortably in the horse's mouth without hurting their teeth. A few tears streamed down his cheeks from the pure vulgarity of the taste that had thoroughly saturated and practically burned his taste buds. Stifling a choke, he wiped his wet cheeks with the palms of his hands and toppled backwards, barely catching himself on the doorframe before he landed on his rear. A splinter dug into his hand and he hissed irately.

_Today just isn't my bloody day, is it?!_

The haziness in his head now complimented by a sting in his palm, Arthur seated himself on the second step of the ladder that he usually used to lift himself up into the hayloft as he yanked to pointed piece of wood from his skin. Unable to stifle a yelp, he softly apologized to the horses, which had jumped from the shrill, oddly girlish screech that had erupted from his mouth. Crumpet waited loyally for her master to come and tend to her, as a gentle smile stretched itself upon Arthur's face and he threaded his fingers with her longed, matted fringe.

"Sorry, girl," he murmured again, this time quieter as he scratched her ears. "I didn't mean to scare you." Crumpet nickered, balancing one of her hooves in the hay. Arthur had taken her out riding the day before, pushing her hard across meadows and fields – just the usual well-worn tracks that they both knew well. The evidence of her run was encrusted on her legs since Arthur had forgotten to wipe them down with a brush. He rectified that speedily, soothing as he scrubbed the mare's lower calves dutifully. Yes, he often liked to take extra care of his horse, as well as his brothers' when he had the time to spare. It always deepened their bond and Arthur found a sort of solace in animals that just wasn't present in humans. Not in the ones that he knew anyway.

He didn't exactly count his drinking-buddies as "friends." They were merely idiotic people who agreed to have a good time with him after dark. He hardly believed that they'd be willing to escort him home if he got too drunk. Luckily, there hadn't been a time when he'd gotten himself so stoned that he'd woken up in an alleyway, but Arthur still knew he'd have to monitor just how much alcohol he was taking every day. He did want to lead a long and fulfilling life rather than just rot away on the streets, his only companions a half empty bottle of wine and some stray dog that had pissed on him and claimed him as its territory. Most of the simple-minds that roamed around the towns late at night were hardly intelligent anyway. Most of them had dropped out of school as soon as they gotten their GCSEs out of the way. Some of them just mooched off of their parents and slept on the couch. Arthur doubted they could even spell each other's names.

"That's better, isn't it?" he hummed contently to Crumpet after he'd scoured the last dirt from her hind leg. Arthur's smile was scarce. His brothers had rarely ever seen his mouth curve upwards at the edges or seen his teeth present themselves in a radiant grin. His parents had probably never seen it at all. It was difficult to get Arthur to smile genuinely. Sure, he smirked often enough, either from a sarcastic remark or an insult or something, but his golden smile was definitely an uncommon sight. Being so elusive, it probably should've been mounted on a wall in a museum with a golden frame. After all, his smile wasn't unattractive. But, not many could be the judge of that since not many people had had the good fortune to see it.

As he crooned to his horse happily, his arm wrapped around Crumpet's neck, the sudden sound of the stable doors opening turned Arthur's smile to a frown. Then, when he saw which of his brothers had entered, a downright scowl.

"Hey Artie," Allistor greeted. Ever since he'd moved up to live in Scotland, the older brother's accent had changed slightly. It sounded gruffer than usual, more guttural. The aristocratic dialect that his mother had fought so hard to teach him was slowly whittling away, replaced by the raucous Scottish accent. Or rather, that's how Arthur saw it. He didn't like Allistor's new way of speaking, nor did he like the new nickname that he'd acquired.

"What do _you _want?"

"Can't I come down to just talk to my little brother?" was the jolly reply. Arthur snorted. So, he didn't like his brother. Or rather, brother_s_. There wasn't really a reason for it, apart from they were uneducated numbskulls who took pleasure in childish banter and generally acting idiotic. Allistor wasn't a terror, or a bully, or intimidating (as much as his appearance counteracted that). Contrary to Arthur's belief, he was fairly relaxed and laid-back, jolly and a downright joker. He was an easy person to like, unless you got him too drunk and angry – you see, Allistor could hold down a respectable amount of drinks whilst keeping a cordial, jovial appearance, but after a certain point he grew clumsy, rash and sometimes aggressive and his temper was definitely something to be feared – but Arthur wasn't someone who went out of his way to like people very often. Or at least drop his usual anti-social act. He figured that there were some people whom he didn't want to have a very close relationship with, and his brothers were included – they hadn't exactly been friendly to him when they'd been young kids, so why should he? Yes, Arthur held grudges; just one of his many, many, _many _personality flaws.

"I don't particularly want to talk to you," he replied tersely, trying to keep his voice even so that he didn't spook the horses. A wry smile stretched itself upon Allistor's face. It looked like he hadn't shaven for a while thanks to the bristly auburn hair that glinted on his chin. He reached up one hand to scratch the stubble as the other rummaged in his pocket shortly before pulling out a thick cigarette and a lighter. Arthur raised a thick eyebrow; he'd seen his brother smoke before, but from the way Allistor almost hungrily lit the wrapper of tar and other nasty substances with a ravenous glint in his eye, he could deduce that it had become a rather unhealthy habit, perhaps even an addiction.

"What?" he asked laxly, realizing the disapproving look Arthur was shooting him from over the stable door as he shoved the cigarette in between his lips and inhaled deeply. "I haven't had one today."

"That's because it's the morning."

"So?"

Arthur sighed, the low sound of irritation rolling less-than-smoothly off of his tongue. There was no use debating with his ignorant brother, so he just returned to stroking Crumpet's long, soft fur. Allistor grinned. It sounded petty, but he enjoyed getting Arthur annoyed, simply because he could provoke some of the best reactions from the middle Kirkland brother. It was always hilarious watching him get all riled up. He wondered if he could really get him fuming before they went to breakfast. Leaving the cigarette dangling in his mouth, the redhead held out his fingers for his own horse, Angus, to sniff. The gigantic Clydesdale draught horse snuffed at the familiar scent before whinnying playfully and nibbling the very tips of Allistor's members. Said student chuckled and proceeding to gently roughhouse with the chestnut-coloured horse's giant head, eliciting annoyed glares from Arthur in the next stall, who huffed to convey his irascibility.

"That's dangerous, you know," the blond scolded, waggling his finger at the cigarette that Allistor clutched in his teeth. "If that falls, it could land on the dry hay and start a fire."

Booming laughter filled the stalls. "I doubt one ciggy could set this place alight." Allistor continued after he detached himself from Angus, who had started to tug at his collar, seeking attention. "You'd better head up soon. Ma and Pa don't like tardiness, especially when it concerns breakfast."

"I know!" Arthur snapped tartly. Allistor only grinned in response and exited the stables with his hands in his pockets. On his way out, he spat the cigarette into a bucket full of water, and watched with lucid fascination as it sizzled into nonexistence afore strolling back up to the house. The younger followed soon after once he'd produced an apple from the overhead hayloft and let Crumpet indulge herself on the crisp, red fruit.  
"Good girl," he crooned as he re-locked her stall door and quickened his pace.

Despite the encounter with his wily brother, Arthur's headache had decreased considerably until it was nothing but a dull throb of dull pain every handful of minutes. The ground still sloshed beneath his feet, producing some sort of icky brown mush that gathered around his shoes and sucked angrily on his soles, almost dragging them back down into the sticky cesspit of muck. Eventually, he slung himself through the gate and trudged around the front of the house so that he could enter through the utility room door; that way, he might avoid meeting his parents or anyone else in the entrance hall and having them question him and he wouldn't track all of that mud on his shoes into the house. Kicking off his boots, Arthur lingered in the laundry room for a few moments, entranced in his own little world as he stared off into the distance. He jolted gently back to reality, hearing the sounds of his mother bustling around in the kitchen just next door, probably starting to dish up breakfast. Risking a peek through the door frame, he waited until her back was turned afore scurrying through the great hall and into the dining room, hoping he wasn't too late.

Thankfully, Arthur wasn't the last one to arrive in the dining room. Although Dylan and Allistor were present, engaged in a light-hearted conversation, the other seats were vacant. They turned briefly when he entered the room, but didn't pause in their exchange. Since Allistor had been in university, he hadn't really been in contact with the rest of the family, so he'd been "repairing" his relationships with his siblings since he'd arrived back at the old manor house. Cillian and he were on fairly good terms anyway, spending the most time together and occasionally sharing a beer with each other when they thought nobody was watching, and he would belay his accomplishments and new life to Dylan whenever they encountered. Naturally Dylan had lots of questions as he'd be leaving for Cardiff when September started, which was less than a fortnight away. Connor was probably the most attached to Allistor out of all the brothers so he'd been exceptionally glad when he'd seen his older brother's grin greeting him, as well as a rather informal and slightly embarrassing bear-hug. Oh, and a large, calloused hand ruffling his thick red locks for good measure too. He never received such affection with Cillian. Nobody (but Allistor, but that wasn't exactly affection – that was play-fighting) did.

Cillian had never been very loving towards any of the younger brothers since he'd hit puberty, which had been way, way, _way _back, shortly after he'd become a teenager. Whereas Allistor had only become more playful and jovial and Dylan had matured considerably, Cillian had become somewhat reckless, foolish and rash, moving too fast for anybody to keep up. He was growing more and more independent. And the parents _did not _like that _at all_. In fact, he hadn't visited last year thanks to a scathing argument that had exploded last Easter over his future and whether he was going to run the family business. It was tradition for the eldest child to adopt the job, but Cillian was adamant not to, thus practically forcing Allistor to take the burden for him. But, Allistor sure as hell wouldn't be doing it and neither would Dylan, leading the patriarch of the Kirkland family to pressurise his most prized "possession" (cough, son) into taking the job. Arthur had heard the late night conversations passed between his mother and father about his job outlooks and it seemed like the company was to be thrust upon him. He was no fool.

Thanks to the two eldest brothers returning home, the seating arrangements had been altered slightly, meaning that Arthur was regrettably seated next to Allistor. Dylan, sat opposite the auburn haired student, and he stopped chatting for a few moments. From the slices of their discussion that Arthur had actually heard, Dylan was asking about university accommodation.

"You made it then, Artie?" Allistor chuckled softly. "I thought you'd rather spend breakfast down yonder with those horses."

"Shut it."

Arthur wasn't in the mood for his brother's garble and was about to add to his retort when lo-and-behold, Cillian entered. He paused, his mouth half open before staring at the eldest brother with a scathing look that just about bordered upon a mistrustful glare. Clad in a pair of pale orange pyjama bottoms and a gaudy green jacket, he flicked a strand of half-curled, half-tousled ginger hair out of his vision and muttered a tired "good mornin'." Or rather, "top o' the mornin'." Allistor wasn't the only one who'd picked up a dialect whilst he'd been away. Arthur only wrinkled his nose; in his opinion, Irish accents were worse than Scottish accents. The first time that Cillian had come back home earlier that month, it had come as a shock to everyone when he'd spoken since they hadn't heard his voice for a good year. Arthur had been the least willing to accept it and expressed his disdain almost every time they had a chat, which was quite rare. They tended to ignore each other for they both knew even the slightest exchange could set them off.

"Hey," Dylan greeted. Cillian and he were on fairly good terms anyway and he nodded to him as the eldest took the seat to his left, closer to the head of the table and opposite the empty spot where Mother would sit. Allistor acknowledged the presence of his senior both verbally and physically, reaching his sinewy arm across the table and grasping the elder's hand firmly in some sort of aerial arm-wrestle. The veins on both of their arms almost popped from how much they were squeezing each other's palms, yet they both smiled warmly at each other as if it was just a friendly handshake. Dylan rolled his eyes and Arthur just huffed. He _hated _family meal times with a burning passion, especially with the presence of Allistor and Cillian. Scowling irritably, he watched as the two loosened their grips and backed away, still grinning like buffoons. _Idiots. _

A deep yawn from the doorway signalled the arrival of both Connor and Peter, standing one in front of the other and still in their pyjamas. The summer heat had instilled a lazy reaction in most of the siblings. Arthur noted this as he browsed the attires of each of his brothers, frowning. Allistor may have been dressed, but his clothes made him out to be some sort of industrial builder. All he needed was a tool belt laden with hammers and screwdrivers. Cillian glanced briefly at the new arrivals, his gaze lingering on Connor, who had settled himself next to Arthur in the usual spot. The younger almost seemed as if he was purposely not meeting the other's eye, pointedly looking the other way. That was usually how it was at most meal times – Connor and Cillian seriously didn't get along, although nobody really knew the reason why. Well, they both had relatively ginger hair, although Connor was more of a redhead than anything else. The two of them actually looked quite similar to each other; tousled curls, pasty skin and freckles splattered across their cheeks and noses. But they still didn't like each other. Whenever they spoke, they ended up bickering and sometimes even fighting. Well, not _really _fighting. It was more of Connor throwing a few punches and Cillian blocking them easily, for he knew that if he really went all for it, he'd probably break the younger's bones. That, and despite his raging temper, he was secretly quite a gentle soul and didn't particularly take joy in beating his younger brother's senseless. Play-fighting and roughhousing was fun, just as long as it was evenly matched and the worst injuries were a black eye, a chipped tooth or a bloody nose. Or all three as the case may be.

Finally, the head of the table marched through the doorway, accompanied by the bringer of the food. They both took their respective positions as breakfast was distributed and after a long, half-hearted, drawling grace, the devouring of all the food began. Just like any other day, Cillian and Allistor piled their plates with all sorts of meats and delicacies, probably immersing themselves in a silent competition to see who could eat the most. Dylan ate like a pig too, just slower and with more purpose. Arthur just picked up a piece of toast, buttered it and tried to avert his gaze from the massacre of the bacon and sausages happening just out of the corner of his vision. Splashing a generous dollop of fruity jam onto his golden piece of toasted bread, he tucked in with less heart than those around him, savouring the sweetness on his tongue. Like his parents, he also had a cup of tea as he requested one every morning, and sipped it delicately. Arthur looked quite peculiar, stuck in the midst of all of the breakfast carnage.

The Kirkland brothers, although related closely…since, you know…they were _brothers_, all differed greatly from each other with their own appearances and images, traits, habits and personalities. Although they all shared the same eye colour, minus Peter whose aquatic blue eyes mirrored their father's, if you dared to look close enough, you would notice the various shades, flecks and imperfections reflected in each iris. Whilst Cillian's eyes glowed bright with a murky, shamrock colour that resembled the stems or leaves you might find sprouting on flowers or vines creeping up a fir tree, Dylan's were more of a sea green, like how the ocean floor looks when you stare at it from the surface. Connor's eyes were a vivid, almost intense, yellow-green that scorched through the air, whilst Allistor's were a deep, bottomless midnight emerald that seemed to sink forever into his mind, holding all of the secrets of the universe. And Arthur's?

Arthur's exquisite, one-of-a-kind eyes were those that only came around in a couple of thousand years. Although few cared to stare hard enough into those pools of liquid wonder, they held a unique shade that probably couldn't be found anywhere else. Well, the same can be said for all eyes, really. But perhaps it would how they reflected his emotions so well one minute, and could suddenly turn into an unreadable mask so quickly; how one moment they could be directing so much warmth, caressing their view with an unfelt touch that could bring someone so much comfort and cushion them in a blanket of affection, then change into a tempest of anger, turmoil and ire, producing a swirl of icy emotions that swept away all of that balminess in an instant like a cruel blizzard. Maybe that was what made them such gems. Not that anybody ever knew, of course. After all, who has the time to scrutinize somebody's eyes all day?

After the hectic breakfast, Father departed from the house, bidding his wife and sons good-bye as he rushed out of the manor and clambered into his car to drive to work. Being the head of a massive corporate did have its major disadvantages. For one, John Kirkland was _always _stressed, busy and exhausted, constantly trying to keep order and quell his worker's disagreements. Secondly, he even had to work on the summer holidays. Well, except Christmas and Easter as those are Christian holidays and he excused himself from work to worship and pay respects to the Lord, and he was allowed off Sunday mornings for church.  
His wife, Alice, relieved the children (apart from Dylan, who was clearing up the table) and wandered off to either read or clean. Arthur took the day as an opportunity to try and read deeper into '_Clarissa_', retiring to his room once he'd finished his tea and propping himself up on his bed.

Thanks to the hangover remedy he'd ingested, his headache had been completely annihilated, replaced only with the normal fogginess that came after drinking as he couldn't quite remember what he had done last night. Perhaps it would've been better for his to catch up on sleep, but Arthur decided to wait a little while and began scouring the pages for more plot on the epic story. His bedroom was quite large, complete with dark pine wood panels running along the walls instead of wallpaper and circular patterns engraved onto the cream-coloured ceiling. An impossibly large carpet, dark burgundy with golden and violet swirls inked into the fibres, stretched across the whole area of the room, covering all of the birchwood floorboards underneath. On top sat various furniture, including a redwood foot locker, hiding a few precious items that were too valuable or dangerous to be disposed of (such as, empty cigarette packets and void alcohol bottles, all wrapped in white bedsheets); an underused armchair nestled in the corner by the window, that had no real purpose since Arthur preferred to sit or lie on his bed; a chest of drawers on the right hand side of the bed, on which was a small lamp that emitted a soft amber glow whenever it was turned on and an alarm clock (which Arthur planned on packing in his bag to take to boarding school); an ornate desk with another, more modernized lamp, a few text books and a laptop stacked atop of it, which were also to be added to the suitcase, and a chair tucked neatly underneath. And of course, the centrepiece of the room, the single bed which looked more like a double, with a thick crimson blanket spread on the top, slightly crinkled in the places where the blond teenager was sitting as he soaked up the words of the classic he was engrossed in.

Arthur didn't quite know how long he studied into the tragic life of poor Clarissa Harlowe, expressed through hundreds of letters back and forth between friends, however, when he checked the clock it was already nearing lunch time. _Bloody hell, I need to keep a better track of time. _Somehow, the novel had become wearisome and tedious cradled in his fingertips, and Arthur only urged himself to read more to satisfy the dull curiosity of what would happen to Clarissa as her terrible, thwarted life enfolded into the words etched onto paper. The teen stuffed the bookmark back into the pages, set the thick book down in its original place and mapped out some revision before he was summoned to eat by his mother. Sure enough, by the time the clock struck one o'clock, Alice Kirkland was calling out the names of each son respectively to come downstairs. Lunch was similar to dinner, the only changes being the food and the atmosphere without the oppressive eyes of Father analysing his children's every word and movement. He was a hardened man with a wooden jaw; when he smiled, it resembled a thin, jagged line that a child might've scraped into the bark of a tree. Rough, slightly fake.

The day wore on slowly and slightly painfully, minutes barely merging into hours. In summer, the days always seemed to drag on at a more sluggish pace, which only proved to bore Arthur further as he delved deeper into his near-impossible Mathematics revision. Unlike last year, there were barely any numbers to work with and everything was just a mad jumble of letter over letters squared by more letters. And that was just the tip of the iceberg! The blond worked furiously in his room, wondering at what point he'd allow himself a break. Now that the effects of his hangover had worn off, he somehow felt like putting a nice bottle of cold beer to his lips and strumming his guitar into the essence of the night, as usual. Perhaps, if he had spare time, he'd take Crumpet out for a ride as well. Surged forward by the renewed goal that he wanted to strive towards, Arthur memorized each line in his A-level Maths booklet and almost pulled his hair out over some of the more difficult sums before he excused himself, his brain practically exhausted. _I can do more revision tomorrow, _he thought glumly, staring at the clock on his dresser which clearly read that it was just a couple of minutes past six o'clock.

Arthur, pondered in the hallway that separated his room from Dylan's and Allistor's for a while, staring out of the window that he usual snuck out of at night at the gnarled branches of the oak tree. Not surprisingly, the sun still hadn't set and he didn't expect the horizon to swallow it until about eight o'clock. That was the price of summer. Feeling a faint vibration in his pocket, he glanced swiftly at his phone screen at the invitation for yet another night of drinking. Following a couple of seconds of balancing the situation, Arthur refused and gracefully chucked the mobile back into his room where it bounced lightly on his bed before coming to rest amongst the scarlet sheets. He didn't want to risk his mother seeing the rectangular object jutting out of his pocket.

"Arthur?"

Said blond perked up at the sound of his name, looking over his shoulder at his little red-haired brother sceptically. Little known to him, Connor had been aware of him staring out of the window and vaguely wondered if he was thinking of drinking again. He didn't particularly like Arthur drinking, but he couldn't say anything, could he? One, he was younger so the elder most likely wouldn't listen to him and two, it was a bit hypocritical. Just a bit.

"What?"

"Are you going out tonight?"

"No. Why?"

Connor didn't answer, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He just simply turned around a walked back to his room, probably to "study" on his own laptop for a time. Arthur just shrugged; it wasn't uncommon for the freckled boy to ask him whether he was going out or not, but that was all their conversations seemed to consist of nowadays. Connor never answered why he wanted to know Arthur's plans, but he guessed that was alright. As long as he didn't bother him too much anyways. Stifling a yawn, the blond skipped down the stairs, keeping his eyes and ears alert for his mother who would probably remind him of his curfew if he mentioned he'd be heading down the stables. Occasionally, she would stop him from just wandering around on the estate and rambling on about how he "should be revising for his A-level exams", which wouldn't actually begin until next May or June. Certain that she was somewhere else in the house, Arthur followed his normal procedure of darting across the hall, pausing only the tug on some shoes before the lukewarm air greeted him again.

The sky swam with colours, bright and bursting with wispy clouds that slid lethargically across the horizon. The sun, gradually lowering down to kiss the earth, shone just as bright as it had all summer, burning bright amber as bathing some of the clouds that dared to drift close to it in a yellowish light. They almost looked like they'd been dipped and slathered in honey, the undersides coated in a fluffy pelt of soft, creamy butter hues. The fields stretched out, seemingly forever, corn rippling and swaying in an eternal dance of summertime glory. The stems of flowers bent in silence reverence to the passing sun, a few grains and seeds entwining themselves in the soil and blessing the ground to provide new plants with the coming of next spring.

Arthur was creeping down to the stables in a matter of seconds, halting only to admire the delectable view from his position on the crest of the hill. It would look so much finer when he was strumming to himself, alone, half-buried in the hay. The imagery of it was so poignant, that he could already hear the blissful music ringing in his ears and taste the beer. It was amazing how, even after he'd just recovered from a fierce hangover, he still desired to feel some of that sweet, sweet alcohol slithering down and warming his throat before pooling in the heart of his stomach and sending shivers of delicious heat through his body from his core. Just the idea was enough to make him smile to himself as he squeezed through the gate for the fourth time that day: once had been in the darkened hours of the early morning on his way back from trekking through the fields, the second time had been to fetch his hangover medicine and third to come back.

The thin frame of the small boy could be seen from a distance, walking with an air of reserved comfort to his haven. However, his silhouette wasn't the only figure that could be seen from afar. If one were to be nestled in the branches of a tree, lower down on the hill amongst the beginnings of the small forest, they would've noticed an additional three shadows, obscured slightly by the half-stone, half-wood structure of the stables. True enough, Allistor, Dylan _and _Cillian were "chilling" in the meadow, one leaning casually against the wall of the oversized shed as the other two brandished bottles of beer, half full of translucent, rust-coloured liquid. Arthur had not noticed any of them yet, too caught up in his own little world of alcohol and guitars, until the sounds of tipsy laughter reached his ears.  
Locks of burning auburn, vivid ginger and strawberry blond hair all fluttered, not unlike feathers, in the breeze upon his arrival at the stables. He hissed, noting the beer each of his older brothers were clutching in their hands. _His _beer. Allistor was the first to notice him, and grinned stupidly before calling out his name cheerfully. Arthur wasn't fooled. He knew how violent the redhead could get from just a few gulps of alcohol, as he'd seen when they'd been younger, and he halted, eyes narrowed and glinting maliciously.

"_What_ are you doing?" he spat, accenting each and every word as though it were poison to his lips. Dylan simply blinked. Cillian was the only one who wasn't facing Arthur, and took another swig of his bottle, not bothering to even look over his shoulder at the youngster.

"Drinking." It was Allistor who'd answered. If Arthur had to guess, it was he who was the tipsiest at that point, although he corrected himself after he viewed how much liquid was left in each of their flagons; Dylan had drunk the least, although the water line was wavering close to the redheads, whereas Cillian had almost finished. Despite the eldest's temper and vehemence, especially when alcohol had been added to the mix, Arthur didn't back down. He was stubborn, and now thoroughly pissed that his brother's had not only invaded his private sanctuary (well, it was exactly _private _since they all owned a horse, but it _was _his sanctuary), but also _dared _to touch his secret stash of liquor.

"I can bloody well _see _that!" Arthur fumed, provoking a whole-hearted chuckle from Allistor and an amused grunt from Dylan.

"Oh, come on, Artie, lighten up!"

The youngest clenched his fists at his prolonged insolence. _His voice sounds even drunker with that Scottish accent tinged to it, _he thought sourly, his thick eyebrows crumpled together in frustration. He opened his mouth to argue, but he was beaten to it by Cillian, who had dropped his flask into the mud and finally turned around to face the blond. A dangerous gleam filmed his irises.

"Those were yours, were they?" he muttered absently, twirling one of his orange hairs with such nonchalance that a cat would be envious. "Not bad. Tasted quite nice." Arthur hissed. Cillian paused for a moment, as if he was done speaking, before his treacherous gaze met Arthur's and they stared almost hatefully at each other. "_You _shouldn't be drinking though. Still underage."

"As if you'd care," Arthur scoffed immediately, interrupting his brother's reasoning. "I can do what I please."

"That's some crude logic," Cillian deflected. "It only makes you seem more like an idiot."

"_I'm _an idiot!?" The younger's voice was laced with anger and venom as he spewed out the rhetorical question in shocked fury.

"Sure. And you're bossy, too."

Arthur winced, willing himself not to look too hurt. When all of the boys had been young, he'd recalled the three eldest being the closest. They'd always stayed out playing with each other until dark, roaming the countryside and the moors before returning home when the sun disappeared behind the hills. Nonetheless, Arthur had been the odd one out. Instead of harbouring the sparks of adventure and the want to venture beyond the distant horizon, he'd spent his time alone, reading old tales and legends of fairies and pirates. Strangely enough, he'd never felt inclined to explore those sandy shoals he'd read about so much, or search for wondrous flying pixies in the forests at the foot of the hills. Truth be told, Arthur had never needed to search for them. Unlike his brothers, all driven by the same urges of "who can climb the tallest tree" and "who can jump to the other bank of the river", he'd been content secluded in his own little wonderland, closer to home. The bright coloured flowers and twisted trees were all sorts of interesting and new creatures lived grew in his very bedroom or in the hayloft of the stables. Unlike his brothers, older and younger, he had a much broader imagination.

Maybe his reclusiveness as a child had made him envious. Other children didn't want to talk to him. He was boring and weird, always nestled in the corners of the classroom during break and lunchtime, his nose deep in a book, completely engrossed and utterly oblivious to the world around him. It was only when he'd started to grow older did he truly realise that he was gazed upon with indifference by his own siblings. They didn't want much to do with him, if anything, and they never listened. They varied so much from each other; where they were strong from years of throwing rocks in the faraway river, Arthur was little weak with thin gangly arms. Where they were gruff and settled debates with brawn, Arthur's mind was the key to his success. Where they grew to be people he admired, Arthur remained an undersized pest to be snickered at and teased, at worst ignored entirely.  
Of course, he had never boded well with their taunts, especially as Connor had been accepted by them (minus Cillian) so easily. More than anything, he'd wanted to be noticed and acknowledged. Perhaps Arthur had been lonely in the company of beings that didn't exist, or he wanted some positive attention for once, but he'd evolved from the usually quiet and docile child into a grumpy, irritable, argumentative youth who…well, _was indeed _bossy.

In order to make up for all of the times he wished he'd been there, or done that, or made them do something right, he would bite back with snarky comments and a lashing, whip-like tongue. For those type of memories to brought back stung slightly, and Arthur suddenly proceeded to swear and cuss at the top of his lungs, hurling profane insults at Cillian as though his life depended on it.

"Woah, woah, calm down, Artie," Allistor chided, although the hint of laughter in his voice was certainly detectable.

"_Don't call me Artie!"_

"Quit throwing a tantrum," Cillian continued, sounding somewhat bored. Ah yes, another best-forgotten recollection. Arthur's tantrums.

"Shut _up_!" was the blistering retort, coming from the more-than flustered teen.

This is why those two should _never _be left alone together. Cillian often enjoyed irritating people (a more sadistic trait of his), and since it didn't work on Allistor (or rather, didn't _quite _work; in most cases Allistor just took it as a joke; in other cases, a fight would break out and, although Cillian wouldn't want to admit, the younger was just that bit stronger than him) or Dylan ,who was far too cool and collected to let it bother him, he would often lightly tease Arthur instead. Connor was also a prime target, but his temper was so fierce that it never ended prettily. And Peter…was just a _tad_ bit slow…

"Bloody hell, don't get so worked up," Dylan muttered, clapping Cillian lightly on the shoulder as he too dropped his now empty bottle into the sludge beneath his feet. "He's just kidding you." The musician turned to the other two brothers. "I'm heading back. It's starting to get chilly out." Sure enough, the previously warm wind had been replaced with an eerie cold, remote and uncalled for. Summer was starting to merge into autumn, and the birth of the new season was beginning to show with dropping temperatures, the few early leaves that had started to flutter down from the trees above and increased rainfall. As if they didn't get enough of that already. Dylan took a detour around Arthur, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets. Usually, he could withstand the chill, but he was only clad in a red T-shirt, and that wouldn't do much against the biting wind. Dylan's absence didn't really change much about the exchange, other than the heated debate seemed to flare up even more. Arthur was pissed. _Super _pissed. If anything, the shouts that were passed between them were just a reminder of how much he utterly _hated _his brothers, especiallywhen they were drinking _his _beer.

An inferno of yelling (mostly from Arthur) blazed between both brothers, interrupted only when Allistor occasionally stepped in to try and quell their rage. The argument didn't sway in his favour though, and only continued. Cillian, despite his usual refined and uncaring atmosphere, had even grown to the point that he looked truly terrifying, emerald eyes alight with fury as his ginger hair burned like a flame against the darkening sky. Arthur, cussing the elder's existence with every phrase, clawed in vain at his temper, fighting for control. He was supposed to be the more sophisticated out of all of the brothers (that was most often his ego's opinion though), but he certainly didn't look like the ominous and mysterious Arthur Kirkland that he was usually seen as in school. As stated earlier, he didn't normally go out of his way to befriend people, therefore he was often viewed as aloof and reserved.  
Regardless of the anger instilled in both of them, Cillian seemed to remember himself too late and straightened up, sending an acrid glance at Allistor.

"Whatever," he snorted, still bristling. Refusing to meet Arthur in the eye, he strode with a criticizing air past him and launched himself, with much more force than necessary, over the gate. "I don't have time for this."

Allistor lingered for a few moments longer, eyeing Arthur sheepishly. The younger didn't look as though he'd settled down one bit, and almost had half a mind to hurl more abuses as his brother sauntered past; his fists were still clenched, his knuckles white and he stared with livid concentration at the ground before him. Following a half-apologetic, half-sardonic grin, Allistor too shimmied back up to the manor house, not before calling over his shoulder: "Don't sulk up there for too long!" Obviously, he was referring to Arthur's usual habit of sitting in the hayloft and drinking away his sorrows away with the sound of heavenly guitar melodies pouring through his ears. The blond, who had stomped down to the stables, responded with a rough growl of irritation and a curse as he threw one of the empty beer bottles with all of his might up towards the fence. It smashed on the gate post producing the ugly, shrill cry of shattering glass. Unlike his brothers, Arthur's tempers didn't disintegrate after a few minutes. Instead, they stirred and brewed deep within him, forming a grudge that he would normally hold for a few days, perhaps even weeks. The worst grudges stayed within him for much, much longer though and were more difficult to dispel or forgive.

That evening, his guitar did not bring him the usual pleasure or solace that it normally gifted him with. Eyes scorching all that they looked at, Arthur discarded his guitar among the hay after yet another failed attempt at rehearsing one of his favourite songs: _Opus 15 Sonata_. Driven with a powerful, perilous desire to forget all that had happened that evening, especially the harshest jibes Cillian had poked into his self-esteem, Arthur clambered from his practice spot. Even the horses, which often nickered gently to offer some consolation, stood well away from the entrances to their stalls, sensing his dangerous mood. They were right to do so, as Arthur ripped and tore at the tack equipment, desperately searching for something…_anything_ that he could indulge himself in until the night beckoned him. He sincerely regretted not taking up the offer to join the "gang" to go to town when the moon rose. Unfortunately, it seemed his brothers had licked his alcohol reserves dry, as all he could salvage was half a bottle of _Tullamore Dew; _a strong Irish whiskey. He could easily guess that it was Cillian who had down about half of the flagon. He was a sucker for good whiskey.

His fingers tightened around the flask, and he swore bitterly chugging down a burning mouthful, immersed in ire. It wasn't nearly enough to get him tipsy, let alone drunk, but it was better than nothing. The harsh liquid scorched his throat, but he liked that. Wiping his lips with the cuff of his jacket, Arthur slammed the flagon upon the saddle stand aggressively, eyes ablaze. _I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, _the words throbbed in his mind with each breath and he downed the whiskey with another gulp. Suddenly dizzy from everything he'd consumed in less than five minutes, Arthur steadied himself by clutching the doorframe tightly. He didn't want to go back up to the house and risk running into his brothers. He seriously didn't want to face his mother or father either, both of them pressuring him into doing _more _work before he went to bed. In fact, his the faces of his family were the last things he wanted to see on the earth at that moment. Unguided, Arthur's gaze fell upon the multitudes of tack in the small, stone encased room. The night was still young, so he _could _go riding, although he'd be in some deep shit if he happened to pass by his father as he drove back from work. With the little sense he had left in his wrath-induced mind, Arthur pondered the idea slowly.

He wrinkled his nose disdainfully and stepped back from the doorframe. "Fuck it." Purposefully dropping the glass bottle that only held a few meaningless drops of _Tullamore Dew _on the flagstones and hearing it shatter with a satisfying '_crash_' (a few of the horses flinched at this), Arthur hoisted Crumpet's saddle from its stand clumsily. Even though he was smaller than average and slightly weedy, he was much stronger than he looked and could definitely pack a punch. Fiddling with the lock to her stall, he wrenched it open forcefully with a muttered curse, and went about his business; pulling the saddle blanket on before laying out the leather saddle on her back (he did this as gently as he could manage), then tightening her girth suitably, pulling on her reins and fastening her boots. Throughout all of this, Crumpet complied quickly and hastily, knowing that her master was already irritated. She could not only scent his anger and hurt, but feel the rashness of his movements and hear the laboured swearwords that he uttered with each step.

Arthur, too upset and fervent to get as far away from the house and his family as possible, wasted no time in yanking Crumpet from her stall and out into the evening. If he had to guess, it was around half past eight, from the sudden chill that had formed in the air and the spookiness of the darkening moors around him. There was an edge to the dimness that made his hackles rise, however that was probably just his over-heightened emotions getting the better of him. He'd been out riding late at night before, and nothing extraordinary had happened. But, that time, he hadn't been so…_angry. _An oddly cold wind blew from the north, making the nearby trees move as though they were livings things. Crumpet, nervous at her master's quirky behaviour and the unfamiliarity of her surroundings, shifted slightly at the whispers of the breeze, but Arthur didn't even flinch. He was too pissed to notice the darkness, or even to notice that he wasn't wearing appropriate gear for riding. _He wasn't even wearing his hat. _All of his own attire lay, abandoned, in the tack room and he had no desire to take the short walk back to collect it. He was honestly too outraged to care. Fuelled by incandescent indignation, he mounted Crumpet with the ease of long experience and sent he less-than-soft kick to her sides. At once, she replied by starting off into a hastened trot that only got faster with each step she took as Arthur urged her forwards.

Soon, she was consumed by a full-on gallop, the shadows cast from the moon blocking her path. She was frightened by the lunar light that glittered through the branches of unfriendly trees, and more than once she skittered left and right, terror gleaming in the whites of her eyes. Nonetheless, Arthur offered her no comfort with soothing words or a gentle pat on her neck. It was _he _who needed comfort. As they traversed the countryside, unbidden tears streamed down his cheeks, propelled by forbidden choking sounds that caught in his throat. He wanted nothing more than to run, run, run as fast as he bloody well could away from the God-forsaken house as though it was Hell itself. It might as well have been. Everything had just built up into a fantastic, terrible tempest of swarming emotions and hidden fury and it was just _too much_. Something about the salty taste of his own hot tears and biting night wind against his cheeks that froze them to his face brought a sadistic, bittersweet flavour to his tongue. He relished the frost accumulating on his half-naked arms as his jacket ripped out behind him like a cape.

The air was icy; it was filled with the kind of cold that could creep up on you, quieter than a wraith, and at first set you shivering and cause your teeth to chatter as you dreamt of mulled wine and crackling fires. It would make you stamp your feet and _scald _you, as cold can be _so bloody cold _that it literally burns. However, that feeling would only last for a short while, as it would fill you up and drench your senses with drowsiness until you drifted off into a deep sleep, otherwise known as death. Nonetheless, Arthur hardly felt it, as he had a fire heating him from the inside. Although his skin was soon icy to touch and his fingers grew numbs, something about him (probably to whiskey) was warming him. The pure wrath had awakened inside of him, and he's rather die out in the chill of an autumn night than go back home and face the shame of his parents. Besides, they probably weren't aware that he was out. For all they knew, he was in his room, asleep. After all, it was actually just past ten o'clock since Arthur's assumption had been wrong. At this time, he was _supposed _to be in bed.

He didn't know how long he rode for, only that his grip on the reins was much tighter than usual and the racking sobs that rippled through his body counteracted the fast, terrified gallop that Crumpet pushed through her body. Arthur greeted the ache in his thighs almost gratefully and the searing pain in his joints with thankful gracelessness as he flew across the ground faster than lightning. It went well with his tears and reminded him that he was alive. He felt so much more alive than ever, and in spite of his hatefulness directed towards each and everyone of his brothers, some part of his him enjoyed the thrum of Crumpet's hard hooves on the grounds, splattering mud up her legs. Not that Arthur could really see, since blackness was everywhere. Suddenly, the Exmoor horse jumped, causing her rider to lurch forward into his stirrups in surprise. She stumbled slightly as she landed, unbalanced, but continued with relentless speed, hell-bent on getting away from everything that was around her. With terror powering her mind and the thumping of her heart and her sturdy figure, built for swiftness and stamina, Crumpet surged onwards, able to keep galloping until she collapsed from exhaustion or until morning light came. Whichever came first.

Hours probably passed before Arthur heard a drastic change in the sound emanating from the ground that Crumpet's hooves came in contact with. Instead of the occasional slosh of wet mud and the thump of something heavy smacking against dirt, he heard between his ragged breaths hollow clomping, like hardened tarmac. It took him a while to realize, but she was now running on a road. He didn't know how she'd managed to get onto a road, but he guessed it was probably when she'd jumped over and fence or hedge – he could no longer register where they were, and Crumpet had leapt so many times that he wasn't sure whether she was leaping over country fences or garden walls. The tears had long stopped falling, and were instead replaced by some pinkish puffiness that outlined his green irises. It was almost ghostly, how he rode. The fluidness of his body on the back of the sandy horse made them seem like one, especially given the suppleness of Arthur's back. He barely had to move when Crumpet jumped thanks to his weightlessness and the shift in his position came as natural to him as walking. Even though she was going treacherously fast and driven by wild fear, Arthur wasn't scared. He trusted his horse enough to allow her the freedom to roam wherever she wanted to or needed to and barely had to touch the reins. Not that it wouldn't made much of a difference anyway; he doubted that even if he pulled with all of his might that Crumpet would slow her adamant gallop across the moors.

And he didn't want to stop.

Even though his cheeks were no longer wet and he couldn't feel his feet, hands, ears or nose, Arthur could still hear Cillian's biting insults ringing in his ears and taste the sourness of his defeat. It was breathtakingly anger-inducing to recall and he choked down what little pride he had left as he melted into Crumpet's fast pace. He clamped his teeth down on his tongue until he drew blood. _Good. Let it bleed. _Metallic and tangy, the taste filled his mouth until he spat. He could've sworn he heard a dull '_smack_' on the tarmac where his bloody saliva had landed. Everything moved slowly, as though he was in a movie. Murky shapes of trees that lined the road were illuminated against soft, silver moonlight and the stars glittered icily in the sky, encrusted within their own prisons of frost. Arthur stared at the view, his gaze devoid of admiration. Now was not the time to bask in the beauty of the twilight.

Somehow, everything _hurt. _An indescribably burning sensation had opened up in his chest, a giant gash that got wider and wider. It felt…somewhat familiar, and whether it was from the alcohol he'd consumed earlier or the feeling or true freedom flowing through his veins he couldn't tell.  
When his eyes moved back down to the lingering dark in front of his eyes, wrenching themselves away from the crescent moon, he was met with a rather strange sight.

Instead of the stretching oblivion that he had been staring at for the last couple of hours of riding, he was met with a stark, yellow light that blinded him completely. Artificial brightness swam in his vision and Arthur swore inwardly in shock, yanking sharply on the reins. Nonetheless, Crumpet did not halt, or even slow down and only emitted a shrill screech before the black shape of a car loomed over her. Before Arthur could even open his mouth to shout, the scream of leather ripping along tarmac split through his ear drums and he was on the floor, listening to the sound of gradually receding hooves and staring blankly into nothingness.

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**END OF CHAPTER I**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

_**A/N:**_

_/Deep breath/_

_Thank God. I thought I'd never be able to post this. Truth be told, I was planning to post this when I completed Part III to Chapter II, but I've barely even started it yet. I just haven't been able to get motivated lately although all of my end-of-year tests have ended (except my Welsh writing and reading assessments TT_TT). Ha! I shocked even myself with my marks, because I'm normally terrible in tests. 84% at Physics, 79% at Biology, 80% at Chemistry and 13/14 at my English writing. I bet my friend that I'd beat her at Chemistry (she got 93%, what the hell!?) but she never checks my stories so she'll never know the _real _score. Heheheh._

_Nonetheless, I decided to post this anyway because I don't want to leave a massive gap between each chapter._

_Anyway, Chapter I is officially complete, so let's celebrate with cookies! Seriously, I'll give you a delicious cookie if you review. _

_Gaah, I've probably changed the summary again, haven't I? Oh well. I'm trying to draw in more potential reviewers because I'm a review wh*re. But, seriously. I get so excited that I might as well p*ss myself. _

_Just to highlight a couple of things in this chapter/part:_

_I go horse-riding myself, so I trust that the facts there will be a little correct. I've used the English/British style of riding though. I just found out that Americans and Canadians ride differently, with flatter saddles, looser reins and less straps on the girth. Interesting…very interesting…_

_I've probably made a few mistakes because I can't be bothered to proof-read (this part is over 10,000 words long…)_

_I went into a lot of depth about Artie's eyes…because, why not? I've always found green eyes attractive anyway, I thought that each of the UK siblings would have their own unique shades of green eyes. Naturally, Ireland's would be shamrock green. _

_Cillian and Arthur don't get along, nor do Cillian and Connor. Contrary to popular belief, I don't think that Connor and Cillian would be twins because Northern Ireland came into existence in the 1920s. I don't go by the whole, "a county's age is based on when it became a country" though, because then England would be the eldest out of his siblings and Ireland would be the second youngest. Instead, I think that a country is as old as when it was discovered or whatever, hence why I don't believe that America is about 240 years old (because most people believe that he was "born" on 4__th__ July 1776, which again, doesn't make sense, because he had a childhood with England before the revolution) and instead, I believe he's much older and came into existence/ was "born" just after the plague that killed off most of the Native Americans burned out. And now I'm rambling about this new idea that I've developed for a fanfic, involving Native America and her many tribes and little America before England found him…xD I love spoiling things. _

_I have nothing left to say…_

_Thank you so much for reading! Now, I'd really appreciate it if you left a review! It would make my day _


	6. Chapter 6

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**CHAPTER II**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Part I**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

"Oh, shit!"

Alfred slammed down on the brakes so hard that he swore he'd crushed his foot against the pedal. Just a few minutes ago, he'd been roaring across the dark landscape, basking in the glory of actually _driving. _There had been nothing but a black road in front of him, illuminated by the yellow flood brought forth from his headlights. Suddenly, an eerie silhouette had literally reeled out of nowhere, blocking his path. He couldn't even begin to describe what it looked like. One entity, it stood proud and tall with four gangly legs, a bulky, long body and two flaming green eyes. _Those eyes…_ Just as he'd been bearing down on the creature, they'd been boring into the depths of his soul, searching and probing through his memories and morality, despite their obvious panic. Alfred shuddered. Whatever had been on the road in front of him was gone, leaving a gloomy road and a shivering teenager in its wake.

_I've hit something…_

Alfred knew that much. He knew from the jolt that had thrown his neck out of proportion and loud "_thunk_" that had echoed through the metal vehicle that he'd collided with the monster that had been standing on the tarmac just moments before. He sincerely dreaded to think what he'd find if he left the safety of the car. Nonetheless, a dragging sense of guilt forced his trembling hand to unlock the door. He would never forgive himself if he just decided to continue driving right there and then. Seriously, if he'd killed someone…Alfred shook his head firmly. He really didn't want to think about the consequences if he'd just accidentally knocked someone over. It was bad enough that he'd just _stolen – _no, no, he'd "borrowed" – his dad's car, but if he'd legitimately ended someone's life in the process…_oh God, oh God, oh God…_ In order to stop himself from hyperventilating and passing out from the sheer vertigo that had just swept through his brain, Alfred shoved open the car door with much more force than necessary.

After reaching into the glove compartment to grab a torch, he was outside in the freezing air, huffing out breaths of ice. He struggled with the switch, his fingers shaky with nerves and fear. Eventually, light flooded upwards towards the star, ominous and glaring down from the heavens. They were _blaming _him. Blaming him for committing a crime. Alfred always thought that he'd be an enforcer of crime, not of rule-breaker. Either way, the constellations that had once been so welcoming towards him were now sour, glistening with frosty silence. Holding back the urge to cry out and run, Alfred shone the light emanating from the torch on the tarmac in front of him. Despite his hoarse voice, he managed to croak out one word.

"H-h-hello…?" The beams from the torch scoured the ground, searching for any sign of the creature that stood there just a collection of minutes before. "H-hello?" Alfred took a tentative step forward. There was no sound other than the harshness of the wind whistling through tall grass in the field next to the road and the low grumble of the car's engine. The biting wind nipped fiercely at the teen's nose and ears, adding a bright red tinge to both. He was contemplating just going back inside and driving home, and turned around to do just that when a sonorous groan, that wasn't coming from his car, reached his ears.

Alfred froze. _What the hell was that? _A trickle of cold sweat slithered down his spine, and he spun around, shaking violently. _What if it's a ghost? _Alfred seriously wasn't compatible with supernatural things, hence why he was so shaken just from the groan. For a second, he thought he'd imagined it, until a rustling from the side of the road alerted his attention. Teeth chattering, he attempted speaking again.

"Wh-wh-who's there?" His voice was laced with fear and came out as nothing more than a petrified squeak, pathetically high-pitched for his gender. A fierce gale ripped against his shirt and jacket, only intensifying the heavy atmosphere. Eyes wide with fear, he combed the ground, searching for something – _anything _– that could have be emitting those pained grunts. He profoundly refused to believe that it was a ghost; if it was, Alfred would probably just have to faint right there and then, despite his heroic attitude. Ghosts and paranormal things were just something he couldn't deal with. His kryptonite, if you will.

Suddenly, his panicked gaze passed over a moving shape, crumpled at the side of the road. _Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, what is _that_!?_ Torch light bled over the figure, bathing it in blinding yellow light. A dark green jacket, almost the exact same shade of the grass, was slumped over the oddly humanoid individual and two, long black limbs were folded beneath it. It flinched in the intense lustre of the torchlight and released another murmur, this one bordering on the verge of annoyance and pain at the same time. Alfred paused, inspecting the thing closer. Despite his terror, curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he was kneeling at the same height as the figure, the torch so close to its face that it was writhing desperately to shield its eyes. A mess of golden blond locks sat atop the strange thing's head, in stark contrast to the two caterpillar-like bristles that hovered on its eyebrows. Alfred, lost in thought, stared long and hard at the weird creature he'd happened across.  
It was a _boy_. More importantly, it was the same thing that he'd just knocked into with his – ahem, _dad's _– car, which explain why it was curled on the cold, muddy ground in a rather uncomfortable position.

"Oh my _God!_" Alfred squawked, his fear banished in the face of this injured person who was furrowed on the floor in front of him. His gallant instincts kicked in. "Dude, are you okay!?"  
The reply was muffled by the jacket that the boy had slung over his face in a feeble attempt to block out the dizzying light from the flashlight that swam in his vision, too close to his eyes. Alfred frowned.

"What?"

This time, the response was much more violent. The boy, instead of shrinking back into his jacket, ripped out of his reclusive shell, eyes blazing like hellfire as he glared murderously at the dopey teenager in front of him. _Holy shit…those eyebrows! _Sure enough, the two caterpillar objects that had been plastered on the boy's head were indeed his eyebrows, impossibly prominent on his forehead and extraordinarily profuse. Alfred leaned back slightly, half because of those dense gobbets of hair sticking out on his face, half because he was immensely perturbed by the sheer concentration of the stranger's bright, emerald gaze, exaggerated by the amber firelight that danced across the surface of their irises, resembling vivid fireflies on a jade lake, aged with algae. Burning incandescently, the other teen's gaze left scorch marks on his own blue eyes and he spoke, his tongue sharp enough to leave scars on beech bark.

"_Don't _use the Lord's name in vain, you _fucking wanker!_" he snapped, shoving Alfred backwards even more with a thin arm. Even though he was smaller and lither than the American, he definitely had the strength to drive him backwards, even if it was only a little bit. Although it was faint, a queer smell of alcohol lingered in the air between them, but it was gone too quickly for Alfred to wonder about for more than a second. The two stared at each other, one gaze swimming with hostility, the other perplexed and mildly shocked. Now, _this _was the kind of dialect Alfred had expected to hear once he'd entered England. Unlike the rough, farmer-ish way that his grandparents and aunt spoke, the words that rolled off of the flustered boy's tongue were aristocratic, a little bit snobby and haughty.

"Wow, you sound really posh!" he exclaimed, ignorant to the tone in which he'd been barked at just a few seconds ago. The youngster's face twisted into that of irritated disdain upon hearing Alfred's words, although he couldn't quite tell why.

"Shut up!" he hissed. "Bloody hell, you're an American." It wasn't a question. The words resembled poison in his mouth, bitter tasting. After that, there was a long pause of tense silence.  
In the handful of moments that they sat together on the side of the road, the flashlight illuminating their features, Alfred managed to drink in every aspect of the strange boy's face. Porcelain cheeks, brimming with redness from the cold night winds that had been lashing them before; a softly curving nose that gave way to two imperfect lips, one slightly fuller than the other, that didn't quite compliment his pale complexion with their waxen, slightly colourless tinge. Lobed ears unhidden by his short, messy hair, both inflamed by frost; the delicate, feminine outline of his face, markedly lenient instead of chiselled and brash, causing him to look younger and more boyish than he should have.  
Alfred was completely and utterly entranced, tracing each smooth line with his sweeping gaze up to the point that he locked eyes with the boy again. _Jesus Christ, if looks could kill. _He found that, despite the eerie feeling that those gems poured into him, he was also enthralled by their undemanding beauty. Yet, he couldn't stare for too long as something else, more significant, had caught his attention.

"Woah, you're bleeding!" Alfred yelped, reaching out to touch the lines of crimson that were starting to trickle from beneath the boy's hairline. He didn't resist, and instead let a pained groan escape from between his half-parted lips, raising his own hands to feel the blotch of red that had started seeping through his golden hairs.

"Ouch, that hurts!" he complained sourly as Alfred retracted his now-scarlet fingers from the bleeding scalp. Something within him, probably his naturally occurring heroism, urged him to help this poor damsel – well, guy – in distress.

"Hold on a minute, I think there's a First Aid Kit in the car somewhere," the American explained quickly before rushing back to the vehicle, of which its engine was still purring, and rummaging around the glove compartment. Although he wouldn't have said it out loud, the boy was actually kinda cute, but he totally was _not _attracted to him. Despite the colourful language that he'd used, the guy looked like he was younger than Alfred, at least by a year. He probably wasn't gay either. _What would someone like him be doing in a place like this at this time? _Strangely enough, those bright green eyes were oddly reminiscent to those of the "Thing" which had been positioned on the road earlier. Alfred froze, his fingers furling around the handle to the First Aid Kit that he'd just managed to locate under the front passenger seat. _What if he's some spectre who was sent to haunt me? _  
Now a little disconcerted, the teenager approached the other boy, who was still on the floor clutching his head with a dazed expression, and kneeled, bringing out a reel of bandages.

"You okay?" Alfred asked, gesturing that he was going to start tying the bandages around his head.

"What?" The boy shot him a disbelieving look. Something in that harsh gaze told the American that he wasn't questioning him to repeat himself. "_What? _Am I okay? Am _I _okay?"

"Um…sure…why do you keep repeating that?"

The boy ignored his second question completely. "What in the bloody hell makes you think that I'm '_okay?' _You just almost _killed _me with that bloody death-trap right there –" he gestured furiously towards the car "– and you have the audacity to think that I'm actually '_okay?'_"

Alfred hesitated blankly. "Well…are you?"

The boy sighed gratingly. "_No!"_

There wasn't much conversation between them after that as Alfred leaned forwards to bind the dressings around his head, other than the odd "ouch", complaint or subtle insult. Eventually, he finished, concluding off his "handy-work" with a sloppy knot and swiping away the blood, which was starting to dry, with a cleaning wipe. Through all of his labour, he received icy glares and scathing comments, but he didn't particularly mind. He was, after all, being the hero by saving this damsel – _damnit, this guy isn't a damsel _– in distress at the roadside.

"Can you get up?" he asked, offering a hand to assist the stranger.

"I'm just _fine, _thank you," came the seething, posh-pronounced reply as he swatted the helpful hand out of the way. The boy was quite short, adding to Alfred's assumptions that he was quite young. With a limber frame and an unexpectedly fragile deportment, he stood more than a couple of inches below the New York teenager, in spite of his best efforts to appear taller and more intimidating.

"Look, dude, I'm sorry for knocking you over –"

"You should be!"

"– but, you really freaked me out!" That burning, antagonistic gaze swept over Alfred again, yet this time he was being stared at with an aura of incredulous scepticism rather than raging acrimony. Nonetheless, he continued as though he didn't notice or didn't care. "Geez, what's a kid like you doing out here at this time anyway?" Once again, he was fixed with a suspicious glare, now brimming with offense.

"Kid? _Kid? _Just how old do you think I am?"

Alfred shrugged. "I dunno, thirteen…?"

"I'm _sixteen, _you wanker!"

Now it was Alfred's turn to stare. Sure, this guy had a very selective range of vocabulary, although Alfred had no idea what a "wanker" was, but he didn't quite _look _like he was sixteen. Well, not at first glance anyway. As he stared closer, concentrating more on each feature, he really began to _see _it. The teen aspects. Despite his flawless skin that probably should have been pock-marked with acne scars, Alfred could tell from the mature gleam to his eyes, the conceited aura that flooded from his not-quite-slouching shoulders, that this boy _wasn't _a boy; he was a _teen_, just like him.

"Sweet mother of Jesus, you're the same age as me!" he exclaimed, shocked. Well, at least that made him feel a little bit better about his earlier thoughts of finding the guy cute. Yet another hostile glare was shot at him from those glittering green eyes.

"_Don't use the Lord's name in vain_!" the Brit repeated disparagingly, louder and more violently than last time. Suddenly, he stopped and pondered sceptically for a handful of seconds. "Wait a minute…I'm the same age as you? Meaning you're sixteen…?"

"Yeah!"

"Are you a fucking idiot!?" the English accented voice practically screeched, a slither of white-cold snaking from his lips up into the night air. "You're _underage_! You can't bloody drive!" Alfred frowned. Although he was starting to feel the twilight winds seep into his jacket and crawl along his arms and chest, drafting upon his half-bare skin, he stayed stock still, a new sense of impatience worming its way into his mind. He'd already argued with his father about the age which he should learn to drive, and he certainly didn't need to be scolded by some random guy he'd run into – literally, run _into _– in the middle of the night. Nonetheless, he just allowed a barely audible sigh to dissipate into the atmosphere, choosing not to get angry with the stranger; he had just knocked him over _and _injured him, so he couldn't really pick a fight with him. Not now. Not here.

"My name's Alfred," he greeted warmly, once again pushing the teen's comment away as a grin spread across his face and he extended one of his hands. "Alfred F. Jones."

The other teen, somewhat mistrustful of the outstretched hand, and startled that his statement had been brushed off so easily, without even the batting of an eyelid, narrowed his eyes. He started at the palm dubiously, as though it were a dangerous weapon rather than a piece of flesh and bones, afore warily putting forwards his own nimble member.

"Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland."

Alfred readily grasped his hand and shook it vigorously, discreetly amazed at how smooth the supple skin of his fingers was. Each slender finger wrapped around his in an awkward handshake, and he almost recoiled just at how _pale _Arthur was. It was strange enough that he was so small, but he was thin too, bordering on skinny, and the whiteness of his skin was definitely something to marvel at. He was like marble. And _his hands _were just so damn soft! Alfred swore that he could spend an entire lifetime holding onto those willowy digits and tracing the pallid lines, barely visible, on his elusive hands.

"Um, could you let go, please?" Arthur asked touchily, tugging lightly to try and retract his hand from Alfred's firm grip. There was an obstinate oppression in the air between them, intensified from the fact that Alfred realised that he was staring at the other's hand with an expression of pure awe and he hadn't released it yet.

"Damnit, sorry!" the American replied, pushing Arthur's hand from his own a little too roughly. His arm fell limply to his side, almost as though it was broken, whilst Alfred smiled sheepishly, fighting back the blush that was threatening to burst across his cheeks. "It's nice to meet you, Arthur." His teeth lingered on the name longer than necessary, rolling across the 'r' suavely. That didn't go unnoticed by the owner of said name.

"Right," Arthur muttered, rubbing his elbow, which had started to go numb in the cold breeze. "It's a shame I can't say the same. Alfred, was it?"

"Yup. That's my name." Alfred, after confirming his identity to the not-so-strange acquaintance, found himself wondering trivially about Arthur's size. Earlier, when he'd been zooming down the country road, shadows framing either side of the road, he could've sworn that the teen had looked a million times larger, peering through the windscreen with wide limegreen eyes. Somehow, that didn't seem plausible. _Why was he so big then, but so small now? _Alfred shrugged subconsciously and brushed it off as just an odd silhouette falling across his screen in the light of the moon."You know, I thought you'd be taller."

Arthur stared doubtingly at him. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, when I saw you standing in the middle of the road, you looked a lot bigger. Like a monster or something."

The Brit paused and stared at him. Downright _stared_, as if he was crazy. Then, an unfamiliar look crossed his expression; one of dread. Right there, in the darkness of the night, the injured teenager turned around, his eyes searching the shadows desperately for any signs of movement. There was none, other than the breeze rustling the bushes nearby. Instead of what he hoped was an equestrian shape, there was only a hedge and a fence and a darkened field, obscured by impending blackness that his eyes alone could not penetrate. A look of defeat crumpled on his face, and for a few seconds, he shook, clumsily fiddling with his fingers as though he didn't quite know what to do.

"Um, dude?" Alfred questioned, detecting the obvious change in attitude. "Are you alright?"

"She's gone," Arthur mumbled, his voice reduced to a whimper.

"Who?"

"My horse. Crumpet."

"Your horse?"

There was no reply, save a throaty whining sound that was immediately cut off and muffled by what looked like Arthur's hand as he raised his arm in front of his face. Since he was turned around the other way, Alfred could only see his flimsy shoulders shivering, and he guessed that it wasn't just from the cold air that encircled the two of them. He'd started to feel the ice pricking his arms long ago, but it had looked like it was affecting Arthur more, from the red hue to his cheeks, ears and nose. However, even Alfred wasn't dense enough to not observe that the Brit was rather upset from the disappearance of his horse. An odd concept, but the "hero" knew that he couldn't just walk away and leave him there to try and make his own way home or, God forbid, go and search for 'Crumpet.' _Why the heck would he call a horse 'Crumpet?' What an unusual name. _

"Hey, hey, hey," Alfred chided gracelessly, his voice quaking with gawkiness, tentatively laying his hand on the smaller teenager's shoulder, trying to act comforting as well as urging Arthur to explain just who 'Crumpet' was and why he was so distraught over the matter. It was only when he turned to face him that he saw the tears quivering in the fathomless caverns of those emerald eyes and a few starting to slip down his cheeks, that he flinched, blinking in shock. _What the hell, why is he crying!? _Before he could question Arthur's outlandish behaviour, the tears had already been swiped away by the sleeve of a forest green jacket and the teen was snivelling pathetically in a desperate attempt to stop more from falling.

"Bloody hell," Arthur cursed quietly. "Bloody _hell!_" In a matter of seconds, his teary eyes were brimming with enmity and aggression again and he confronted Alfred shakily. "_You _hit her!" he accused abhorrently. "_You _hit her with that stupid, fucking car of yours, you…you…_wanker!_"

Alfred threw up his arms in defence, his palms on either side of his face. "Woah, I swear I didn't –"

"_Yes, you did! _I _saw _you! I saw that car coming straight towards us!" Arthur advanced, the pits of his irises flaming perilously. He raised a fist, and the very hand that Alfred had been so entranced with before looked as though it was about to come around and smack him square in the face. However, the Brit seemed to salvage himself just in time and wheeled around again, turning his back to the nervous American. "What if she's hurt? What if she's _dead_?"

"Okay, okay," said American mollified, trying to keep his own uneasiness from creeping into his voice. "I don't think she's dead, otherwise there'd be a corpse somewhere around here." Arthur cast him a long, unconvinced glare over his shoulder, his eyes glistening with moistness. _Damn, perhaps I shouldn't have used the word "corpse." _

"You spooked her," he clarified raspingly. "That's why I fell off. I hardly ever fall off."

Alfred stared at the short teen; he didn't exactly know much about horses, but he guessed that "spooking her" meant that he'd scared her to the point that she'd galloped away. "So, she ran off?"

"Probably."

Arthur brought a finger up to his mouth and began delicately nibbling on one of his nails, although not to the point that the brittle keratin cracked under his teeth. While it was a distasteful habit to say in the least, Alfred couldn't help but find it mysteriously charming; his furrowed brows, which, upon closer inspection, didn't really detract so much from his range of facial expressions; the thoughtful blaze in those luminous, olive eyes and the flashlight reflected in his irises; the nip of chattering, white teeth on not-too-long nail and the pinkish hue to his translucent cheeks, informing that he was beginning to feel the effects of the impermeable air. Why Alfred found that appealing, he would never know. Either way, he could tell, regardless of the Brit's definite resentment towards him, that he was undeniably attracted to Arthur, whom he'd literally just met five minutes ago.  
Eventually, Arthur retracted his hand from his face, unhitching his teeth from the keratin and fixed the hedgerow behind him with a determined stare.

"I'm going to look for her," he announced sourly, pulling his jacket tighter around himself.

"Wait. What!?" Alfred choked, baffled. If he'd been drinking water, or any other liquid at that moment, there was no doubt that he'd have sprayed it all over the floor.

"I'm going to look for Crumpet!"

The brute determination in both his eyes and voice were irrefutably adamant, clearly that Arthur was going to go and look for his runaway horse in the dead of the night, and even force wouldn't be able to stop him. Not that Alfred would force him not to. Instead, he just took a step back, his head cocked to the side in disbelief. _This guy's crazy. _

"You can't go looking for your horse at a time like this! It's already past midnight!" he argued.

"I don't care," Arthur spat hatefully in response, catching the Yankee off-guard. For a brief handful of heartbeats, he pitied the Brit, partly because he was guilty for hurting him physically and emotionally (he'd made him cry, and that was just quite unforgivable, especially since his main goal as the hero was to _stop _people's tears, not be the root cause of them), and partly because of the profound sadness in his gaze.

"Why are you so bothered about Crumpet?" Alfred dared to ask, his voice low with sympathy and gentle. His tone obviously startled Arthur; he jumped and his narrowed eyes flickered wide open for a moment or two.

"You wouldn't understand," he murmured softly, oddly flustered.

"Why not?"

"You just wouldn't!"

_God, what is wrong with him? _Alfred stifled a groan by bringing his hand up to his face and absentmindedly fiddling with his glasses and rubbing his stony cheek with the palm of his hand, of which was remarkably warm. Sweaty, even. Being the protagonist and the star, there was no way that he could just turn tail and drive back home (in fact, he was a little scared of driving – his heart still hadn't settled down from his collision with the monster, which was now revealed to be Arthur on horseback). He had to help this guy, even if it meant staying up in the early hours of the morning to look for an escaped horse. Alfred sighed heavily; it was clear from the expression on that cute – _no, he is categorically _not _cute _– face that Arthur wasn't going to leave the area without this 'Crumpet' and he would never, never, _never _be able to forgive himself if he just left without doing something to aid the Brit.

"Alright…alright…" Alfred exhaled, exasperated. "Just…give me a sec, will you?" He retired to the vehicle, still purring merrily at the roadside and leaned into to check the time. _2:28am. Well that's just perfect. _Half-past two in the morning and he was contemplating going to search for a lost horse. _I must be crazy. _Well, he had three options. One; he _could _just drive away. _No, no, no, _that was about as un-heroic one can be. He _should not, _he _would not_, he _could not _leave Arthur to fend for himself at this hour, especially in the middle of nowhere. Alfred would rather _die _than abandon the random Brit whom he'd just met. Then, there was option number two; use force to get Arthur into the car and drive him home. _That _was considerably less ludicrous than looking for a horse and probably the most possible out of all the three options he'd grouped together in his head. He could actually try and do that, since he would most definitely be able to overpower Arthur (weighing up the situation on size and muscle mass), but then he'd have a kicking and screaming guy in his car who probably wouldn't co-operate by telling him where he lived. The furthest he'd be able to get with that plan would be a couple of miles down the road, then the car would probably end up crashing. Alfred knew, from many action movies, that people didn't really like being held somewhere against their will.

Lastly, there was option three; search for 'Crumpet.' For a moment, the American wondered what kind of face his father would pull if he belayed back the events of that night and mentioned that he had gone on a search-party with a stubborn Englishman to look for a misplaced pony. Yup, he'd have probably been accused of taking drugs. Nonetheless, in spite of how preposterous and nonsensical it sounded, Alfred knew that this was possibly one of the only choices he could actually perform well. It wouldn't do his situation any good if he tried to hold Arthur in the back seat of the car and drive all around the countryside just to find out where he lived, and he wasn't about to back out now that he'd gotten too involved too deep. Alfred groaned, realizing what he was pressurizing himself to do. _I cannot believe that I'm actually about to do this…_

Hesitating slightly, he wrapped the safety string of the flashlight that he was still holding around his wrist and rootled around until he managed to find another one in the same glove compartment afore heading back to Arthur. Surprisingly, the resolute Brit hadn't run off into the darkness to search by himself and was still stood in exactly the same spot that Alfred had left him. The only thing that had changed was his position; he was swaying slightly to the left, one of his legs bent slightly as he stared at the shadowy air in front of him thoughtfully, an inattentive glazed coating his eyes. _Damn…does he always make that face? _Alfred was about to toss the torch to him in the same fashion that those awesome heroes would chuck a weapon to their sidekick, but he decided against it as he foresaw the flashlight hitting Arthur in the head and resulting in him shouting and cursing again. He'd already caused him enough pain as it was.

"Heeey, Earth to Artie," he called, waving his free hand in front of the teen's face. Arthur jerked, startled before averting his gaze to Alfred. His eyes darkened.

"_Don't _call me Artie," he snarled, vehemence lacing his voice for reasons unknown to Alfred.

"Sheesh, calm down," the bespectacled American answered defensively. It was at that moment that, for some reason, his eyes were drawn to Arthur's lips. They were so cold to the point of appearing stark white, with a vague translucence about the edges that terrified Alfred to look at. So, he didn't, and instead focused on the slightly violent shivering motions that the Brit was undergoing. His cheeks, instead of flushed red like before, had a sickly, bluish tinge to them and he appeared much, much paler. Alfred scolded himself mentally for not noting down Arthur's obvious discomfort in the unbearable weather sooner. "Are you cold?"

"What?" the posh voice sounded perplexed.

"Here." Alfred shrugged out of his regrettably warm jacket and slung it around Arthur's shoulders before he could protest. The pinch of the air upon his now naked arms stung slightly, but he didn't care. He was the hero, therefore he could manage.

"H-hey!" And there was the objection.

"It's fine, dude." Arthur wasn't convinced and instead stared in amazement at him, his eyes clouded with mistrust as though his jacket was toxic or slathered in poison. Alfred shrugged mindlessly and held out the spare flashlight that the Brit somehow hadn't noticed yet. His emerald eyes widened and he began to stutter, stupefied by the sudden acts of kindness afore he remembered himself and reached out to wrap his slim, waxen fingers around the object that would grant him at least some visibility in the tyrannical murkiness.  
"Let's go and find your horse."

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

_**A/N:**_

_And here's the first part to Chapter Two! To be honest, this part was actually quite easy to write because I was so excited about the interaction between Alfred and Arthur. I'm not entirely sure if I've knocked that nail completely on the head with their personalities though. I imagined Arthur would be haughty, cold and stubborn, whereas Alfred would (obviously) try and act the part of the hero whilst being overly-friendly.  
Either way, I'm quite glad of this part, even if it's a little farfetched…maybe too farfetched…I always wanted Arthur to have some sort of horse-riding skills, and then I decided to incorporate that idea into this story, which I desperately wanted to be a hateful rivalry that would blossom into love etc. And then the religion came in, making it even _more _complicated…and so on and so forth. _

_I just keep adding!_

_Before I rant, I want to say a brief "thank you" to dianaanel redondozacarias, Crazy rabbit2, StarkidWolf (twice!) and PurpleLuna98. I believe I replied to all of your reviews with PMs, but I still want to thank you here for your kind and encouraging words. They really inspire me to continue writing this story. Thank you very much!  
And thank you to the people who added this story to their favourites and alerts list. _

_Anyhow, I don't think I have much more to say on this chapter, since it kinda already explains itself…hopefully…_

_Oh yeah, and the way it's supposed to be going now relationshipwise: Alfred has a slight crush on Arthur, and Arthur doesn't give a damn because he doesn't quite understand homosexuality (yet). _

_Please leave a review to share your thoughts! _


	7. Chapter 7

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Part II**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

For the first time in his life, Arthur Kirkland was well and truly befuddled, and that wasn't counting the times that his awful brothers had decided to "play a game" with him, which usually involved leaving him abandoned in a large field to, allegedly, play hide-and-seek or pushing him into a river to teach him how to swim. No, this was more like when somebody had decided to do something so outrageous that it could actually be counted as _kind_. That, he didn't recall, had ever really happened to him before. Nobody had bandaged his head for him, save his dear mother or a nurse (but that was their job), nor had anybody given him their jacket after realizing he was cold.

Maybe he _had_ been cold, but he certainly wasn't going to admit _that _to this strange, strange American who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, in the guise of a murderous car. Arthur hadn't really known what to expect when he'd heard the faint sound of a door opening or someone shouting in the night. Perhaps some drunk who thought it would be funny or impressive to attempt to drive a vehicle down a twisting country road. Or a businessman who'd lost track of time and ended up leaving work impossibly late. But, not a callow, bespectacled oaf with an idiotic grin plastered upon his maw. Not some _child _whose body was way out of proportion with his face.  
Arthur grunted, snuffling, as he reluctantly tugged the red jacket this _Alfred _had be audacious enough to wrap around his shoulders. He had no idea where the sudden warmth had actually come from. Two sizes too big, the coat ran all of the way down his back and hips, and the sleeves loosely clutched his bony arms. From when Alfred had slithered the jacket on him, Arthur had felt a million degrees warmer. He probably could've curled up and fallen asleep in the great cavern of heat if he wanted to. But, he didn't. He had a job to do.

Reminding himself of the task at hand, he temporarily forgot the cosy jacket and poked his flashlight out of the folds of the burgundy covering. Supressing another sniffle that betrayed the emotion threatening to flow out of his voice, he just coughed and tried not to think of the gaping hole in his heart. He _wanted _to blame Alfred for the disappearance of Crumpet, he really, really did. But, he just couldn't. Deep down, Arthur knew that it was entirely his fault that his beloved equestrian friend was now missing, probably wounded, in the Somerset countryside. Truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure whether he was still in Somerset at all. He could've been in Wiltshire, or Devon. He hadn't paid heed to any directions he'd been taking in his blinded fury whilst galloping over meadows and dirt tracks.  
_Damn it all! _The Brit may have been a very intelligent individual, but sometimes he did fall prey to some crazy-ass antics when he was upset.

The field that they were currently searching seemed to stretch on forever. Somewhere towards the right of him he noticed the mad flickering of a long illumination; Alfred's own torch, of which he was waving in every direction in an attempt to find Crumpet. _I don't get it. Why the hell does he care so much? _It was very odd, Arthur had deduced, the fact that the Yankee had decided to stay and aid him. Any sane person wouldn't just left him to his own actions, but this guy had been dead-bent on helping him. He'd even mentioned something about heroism earlier. _Weird. _Arthur flinched at the sound of the American calling out the name of his cherished horse, a little too loud and rough for his liking. Nonetheless, at least he was trying, and for that much, the bushy-browed teen was indebted. After some scrutiny, he too added his voice to the melancholy melody of searching calls and yells.

They combed the field, drawing closer and closer to the smudge of darkness on the other side; a rugged deciduous forest of non-evergreen trees, in full bloom even at the end of summer. Sentinel trees loomed in the darkness, contorted into grotesque positions and deportments, frowning maliciously at the unlikely duo. Limbs stretched out to tempt them into the gloomy depths, obscuring watchful stars overhead and only ever adding to the dictatorial despondency. Arthur felt as small as a child, quivering in the face of those monstrous trees. There was something demonic about them, and he honestly did not want to set foot in that forest at all. 'Ominous' and 'foreboding' were the only words that came to Arthur's mind as he stared at the satanic trees, and even descriptions such as those were understatements.

"Do you reckon she'd have run in here?" Alfred asked, startling him as he entered the woods without even batting an eyelid.

"Don't!"

Two eyes, oceanic blue, peered from the darkness, a film of tawny torchlight flickering against their watery surface. "What? You ain't scared, are you?"

Why did he have to sound so much like his mocking brothers? Arthur could clearly see the teasing glint in those eyes, but the way he ridiculed him so listlessly was just an exact mirror of what his brothers used to do. He didn't like it.

"Shut up," he exhaled haughtily, storming past the American, stemming an aura of petulance. The snap of his foot upon twigs sent shivers down his spine, but he scolded himself harshly. _You're not a baby. Stop freaking out. _"Crumpet!" The Brit paused in a murky grove, surrounded by trees; sharpened branches lunged up at the sky, fixed in position. They almost looked as though they were praying. Almost. Unexplainably, he felt the temperature drop. Although he could hear Alfred's voice nearby, resonating off of the ebony trunks, he felt just that little bit icier when he stood alone. He just felt naked without Crumpet.  
_Stupid, stupid! _He wasn't sure whether he was taking his inward anger out on himself for being so reckless with his horse, or Alfred for being a shitty driver. He needed something to blame. It couldn't all just be some mishap. _Oh, Crumpet, where _are _you? _Arthur knew he'd feel so much better if he just had that sandy fur brushing against him and those fathomless eyes staring ahead.

Furiously dashing tears from his eyes, he swore loud enough for the sound to vibrate off of the trees nearby and the soggy leaves underfoot.

"Dude?" Brightness blinded the Brit and he shielded his gaze from Alfred's torchlight. The American must've heard his curse, for he stood on the other side of the clearing, clad in nothing but a black T-shirt and some jeans, a perplexed look of amusement on his face. "You okay?"

"I'm_ fine_," Arthur growled stiffly, turning heel and disappearing deeper into the blackness. He wasn't in the mood to converse with a random teen whom he'd only just met.

"Alright, Artie."

Arthur whirled around faster than he intended and almost lost his balance, red from ire. That nickname was the stupid abbreviation that his cocky brother Allistor had chosen for him, and he _loathed _it. He detested it when that smoke induced voice uttered it, and he detested it even more in the mouth of the uncivilized, crude, even _vulgar _Yankee. "_Don't call me Artie!" _  
Alfred grinned sadistically in response, raising an eyebrow.

"Okay, chill!" he soothed. Arthur grumbled something profane under his breath and proceeded on the path he'd been intent on following earlier, before he'd been interrupted. He didn't quite know why he was so hell-bent on continuing to search. He knew as well as anyone that at this point, it was fruitless. They'd been searching for just short of an hour, and they were probably about a mile from Alfred's death-trap car already. The ground was wet, musty and letting off a rotten stench that stung Arthur's nostrils every time he breathed. Were these the kind of conditions that he usually went out in? He couldn't remember half of the stuff that he did on his drunken riots, let alone the weather. The Brit didn't want to stop searching, though, despite his doubts. If there was even the slightest chance that Crumpet was wandering around the area, he wanted to cease it. That, and he didn't want to admit how senseless the idea to search in the dead of the night was.

As Arthur trudged through a particularly muddy area, made up mostly of some thick sludge that clung to his shoes and dragged him down deeper into the brown mush, the sounds of Alfred's voice, calling out the name of a delicious pastry into the night gradually started to get quieter and quieter, until they ceased to exist altogether. Muffled by the suffocating trees, there was an eerie sense of peace for the Englishman. Yet, it was still eerie and unearthly. Oppressive. The wound on his head was beginning to sting in the night breeze. The bandage, spotted with blood, which hadn't really been tied very well anyway in the first place, slipped off of his head, tugged mercilessly by the wind, and dangled from his ear for a second, before sinking to the floor and nestling itself among the schmaltz of dead leaves. Arthur just winced, lightly fingering and probing the tender area before scuffing his feet along the wrapping and walking further into the forest's arms. Opening his mouth to call for Crumpet once more, his breath steamed in the cold, and he was suddenly very obliged that Alfred had been generous enough to give him his coat. Even when he was wearing three layers, Arthur could still feel the bitterness seeping down to his bones. Guiltily, he wondered how cold the other teen must've been.  
_Perhaps I should give this back. He'll probably need it more than me._

It shouldn't have been too hard to find him. All he had to do was manoeuvre his way back through the woods the way he'd come, following his footprints which were (thankfully) still relatively fresh. Shining the flashlight on the floor, Arthur lightly stepped along the surface of the grime, glad that he was wasn't so heavy that he'd sink to far into the shit-slurry. Multiple times, he thought his eyes had chanced upon a horse-like shape in the bushes. Multiple times the glare of his torch swam across the accused area. Multiple times, it was just a trick of the eyes and he just sighed and swore even louder than last.  
Worryingly, as Arthur combed his way back through the scraping branches that scratched against his head and occasionally knocked the wounded spot on his head, resulting in a quiet whimper of pain or a hiss from clenched teeth, he couldn't hear the calls of Alfred anywhere. Cursing his foul luck and believing that the American had probably gotten bored and abandoned him, he tugged the red jacket further around his thin frame and decided he'd probably have better luck by getting out the forest first, _then_ determining where he would go.

Normally, after he'd been on a binge-drinking town trip, Arthur would be forced to catch a night taxi to the outskirts of the village that he'd embezzled and he'd work his way back from there. He was no stranger to the country in the essence of twilight. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd come across a familiar landmark and make his way home from there. If he was lucky, he might run in Crumpet on the way back. _Don't be imprudent, _he reprimanded acidly. _She won't just magically pop out of nowhere for your convenience. _Arthur knew that he was going to be a hell of a lot shit when he home. First, he'd have to explain why Crumpet was missing and then why he was waltzing through the door, or climbing through the window, just as the sun was coming up (he guessed he wouldn't be home until after sunrise, and by then his parents would be awake, or one of this brothers – no doubt one of them would've noticed that he hadn't returned from the stables last night. Then again, none of them really cared about his nightly expeditions, so they might _just _leave him alone.) Suppressing a deep sigh and another bout of tears to come unbidden to his eyes, Arthur pushed back a stubborn branch that blocked his path.  
_Bloody hell, when does this forest end? I swear, it goes on fore– _

Suddenly, Arthur was falling, one of his legs buckling beneath him. In one abrupt moment, he'd been thrown to floor, a spasm of pain shooting all of the way through his left leg and thrumming through his thigh. Lips parted in a screech of agony, the Brit clutched his limb with bony fingers, shaking. _Oh, shit, that seriously hurt! _There was no possible way that he had broken his leg, yet every time he attempted to move in order to get to his feet, a seizure erupted in his calf, shuddering excruciatingly. Somewhere, his torch had been flung into the undergrowth, probably where it still lay. Needless to say, the light had flickered off, leaving Arthur in a world of cold darkness. _Well, that's just fucking brilliant. _Enclosed by foetid foliage and dank vegetation, the Brit struggled wordlessly, clenching his teeth against the agony of his ankle, which he was adamant that he had twisted quite badly to be in the position that he was.

He didn't want to resort to calling for help, for he knew that nobody would come. Alfred had most definitely buggered off somewhere else. _That git's no doubt gone back to his car and gone home. _Fighting back tears, not only from the frozen ground encompassing and trapping him, pulling him downwards to become one with the earth, but also from the prospect of that fact that he had been betrayed. Arthur wasn't normally one to look at things optimistically, hence why he just flopped down in a limp bundle, pouting and struggling not to sneeze or let any more tears fall. He'd already let loose the waterworks in front of a complete stranger, and he was _not _about to let that happen again. Buried in his own pool of pathetic self-loathing, Arthur pulled the red jacket up over his face, covering himself in the blanket of warmth. He was mildly surprised that it hadn't lost its amazing insulation skills, even after well over an hour of being out in the breathless night. The morning sun would be well on its way in just another two hours. They probably wouldn't make any difference. Surrounded by the atypical scent of something saccharine, Arthur wished himself to sleep. _What if I never wake up? _Good riddance. He wasn't one for suicidal thoughts either, but given his current situation, it was small wonder that he just wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

Antagonized by dark judgments, Arthur found that in spite of himself, immersed in the subtle touches of the coat he clutched with both hands and soft textures of warmth, he couldn't quite drift off to sleep. Was it a cruel trick of his subconscious, laughing at him as he lay in pain, waiting to succumb to slumber or a more callous fate? How much worse could that night get? _It could be raining. _For a few seconds, Arthur froze, wondering if life was like those idiotic shows for children, based off of cynical illusions and it _would _actually start to rain, just to add to his misery and discomfort.

"I hate life," he sniffed, not bothering to notice that it hadn't actually started raining at all. In fact, he was so tied up in his life-abhorring mood that he failed to notice the rather unnatural sounds that the forest was conjuring; a swearword, followed by snapping twigs and obnoxious rustling as well a voice muttering about how "there were never any forests back in New York." If Arthur hadn't moved at precisely that moment, Alfred would've actually stepped on him. Instead, though, the American only cried out as he tripped over the large, Arthur-shaped lump buried under scoops of leaves and a thick, crimson jacket.

"Artie!" he yelped, half-joyfully, half-reproachfully. "I found you!" Glasses skewed on his face, Alfred sat up picking up his torch, which had happily not been turned off upon coming into contact with the forest floor. His cerulean eyes stared quizzically at the Brit splayed on the ground, fixing him was an incredulous look, his mouth hanging half open, one of his cheeks smudged with mud and his hair peppered with squalid leaves. "…what are you doing?"

Arthur suddenly recollected himself, and his stunned expression instantly warped into an irritated pout. "What does it look like?"

"Well, it _looks _like you're sleeping in the middle of the forest," Alfred laughed jovially, picking some of the plants out of Arthur's chaotic hair. "But I could be mistaken." Taken aback by how formal he was with him, even though they barely knew each other, Arthur slapped the large, clumsy hands away from his scalp, resulting in the lumbering fingers to accidentally brush along his head wound. Some look of soreness must've flashed in his eyes, for Alfred's reaction was quick and apologetic. "Shit, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to –"

"Forget it. It's fine." The tone of finality floated in Arthur's voice as he just brushed off the ache as though it was nothing. Alfred frowned, disbelieving, but he refrained from challenging him and instead hauled himself to his feet, staggering backwards a few steps. The torchlight flickered momentarily in Arthur's eyes, but it soon left to peer at the foliage next to him.

"Right. What _are _you doing on the floor then?"

The Brit's ears enflamed from embarrassment. "I fell."

"What? Didn't hear you." Sure enough, Alfred had genuinely not heard Arthur's clarification, for he had a look of malcontent on his face. Even so, the explainee was still heated about the whole matter at hand.

"I fell!" he repeated, shouting it up at the American with a red face.

"Oh." Alfred stared sceptically at him. For a long time, blue eyes locked with green, a sea of teal swimming between them in the night atmosphere. Arthur, although pissed, could only marvel at how the other didn't have any goosebumps pricking his arms and just stood there in the cold as though he was in the middle of the Mediterranean. Then, Alfred began to laugh. It started off as a charmed chuckle, but escalated to a sound of pure mirth as he clutched his sides and belly, snickering wildly with enough noise to awaken the whole of England. Arthur's face only deepened in colour until he had turned a pretty shade of scarlet.

"Don't laugh!" he scolded desperately. "It's not funny!"

"Right," Alfred chortled, wiping caged tears from his cobalt eyes whilst fiddling with his glasses. "Okay…okay…phew…can you get up?"

Arthur glowered at the American. There was no way that he was going to admit that he was in pain or that he couldn't actually get up. Discreetly, he was quite glad that Alfred had actually managed to find him, even if he had tripped over him. That hadn't been a very good start. However, Arthur dreaded to think what might've happened if he had been forced to spend the entire night alone beneath the towering trees, watchmen of the nightfall. There was a very real possibility that he could've died had nobody come for him. Well, unless the police hadn't gotten involved with their specially trained tracker-dogs. Needless to say, Arthur was happy enough just to see the foolhardy American. Not wanting to look weak or any more pitiful than he already did, he pushed the palms of his hands against the sodden ground, not caring that mud was oozing between his fingers. Supressing another wretched contraction of pain emanating from his swollen ankle, he grabbed onto a low tree branch, jutting from the trunk of an ancient oak sprouting next to him and pulled himself upwards. Unfortunately, the oak truly was antediluvian and the branch started to crack from his weight. That, combined with the tremendous agony of putting his injured foot on the ground was just a bit too much for Arthur; at the same moment that the branch shattered into a combination of splinters, he lurched forwards, preparing to hit the ground again.

However, this time some other presence stopped him from getting a mouthful of saturated dirt. When the British teen felt safe enough to open his eyes a crack, he was indeed staring at darkness, but, unlike last time, he wasn't drowning in it. There was something – or rather, some_one _– holding him in place, preventing him from falling any more than he already. Two strong hands clutched his waist, rooting him in place and suddenly, very suddenly, his cheeks started to redden until they were almost the same shade as Alfred's jacket, of which was now caked in mud splatters.

"Woah, easy there," his saviour chided softly, still grasping his flanks. "Did you hurt yourself or something?"  
Arthur mentally cursed himself. He hated this. He hated everything about it. He hated being helped by some brat who was the sole reason for his suffering and he was so _sick _of being treated like a baby, not only by his parents and brothers, but by this acquaintance who only knew his name!

"Get off of me!" Arthur ordered, twisting pugnaciously to get out of the American's strong grip. He succeeded, but only for a moment or two as the pain jarred through his leg once more, and Alfred's large hands found themselves on his lower back, once again supporting him and thwarting his plans. Now, for Arthur, that area was rather tender and had been quite ticklish ever since he'd gotten his tattoo, explaining the brief tremor that had rippled through his body and the crimson flush to his cheeks.

"Dude, quit squirming or I'll drop you!" Alfred cautioned. Arthur had no choice but to obey, for it was clear that if he kept twisting to try and get away that Alfred would indeed drop him onto the cold floor below. Scowling dryly, he stayed motionless, trying to ignore the fact that he was in such close proximity to another male. If he had been a woman, it would no doubt have been a vile breach of personal space and it would've counted as a sexual assault, but since Arthur was practically being manhandled by someone of the same gender, it wasn't much of a problem. Just a little awkward was all. Nonetheless, he still disliked the invasion of his private bubble.  
Alfred exhaled smoothly, happy that Arthur was finally willing to co-operate. "You can walk, right?"

_I can bloody well try. _The Brit clamped down on a snarky reply and placed his foot down softly on the forest floor. To his discontent, Alfred hadn't relaxed his grip on his waste, which bothered him slightly. He was beginning to wonder if he was some kind of pervert by the amount of times that he had touched Arthur that night, but he brushed it off immediately. _If he truly was a pervert, he would be targeting females, not males. _Reassured by his logic, Arthur attempted to shift half of his weight to his injured ankle. It didn't quite go as planned, since he ended up emitting a high-pitched whimper of pain and almost collapsing. Alfred's arms were the only force that prevented that.

"I'll take that as a 'no,'" Alfred jested, a smirk cracking upon his lips. Arthur objected with his voice and expression, grimacing as his eyes clouded over like a tempest. Before he could shout a protest, the American just continued laxly. "Looks like I'll have to carry you then."

Arthur's face fell, and he fixed the other teen with a glare that spoke wonders; he looked at him as though he'd said the most laughable joke in the world and he hadn't quite heard him correctly. "What?"

"Hold my torch a minute." Nescient to the Brit's question, he went on speaking as though he'd said the most natural thing in the world. The item in question, which had been strapped to his wrist by a thick, black cord, was shoved into Arthur's unwanting hands before he could struggle against it, temporarily blinding the smaller boy as he fumbled with the way he was holding it. And suddenly, he was lifted off of the ground, letting loose a gasp of shock as his feet came into contact with nothingness and he found himself lying Alfred's arms; one hand firmly supporting his legs by holding up his calf muscles whilst the other was slung across his shoulder blades, causing his back to curve slightly. In other words, Arthur had just picked up in the same fashion that a groom would lift his bride, much like in a wedding photo. All he needed was a flowing white dress with some intricate lace design, and he'd make for a very ravishing bride indeed. Well, minus the hair, breasts, hips and everything else womanly.

Arthur, his fingers clasped gently over the torch, despite the sudden rush of vertigo, flushed a deep shade of burgundy, his entire body going rigid and stiff from shock. The American had scooped him off of the floor so easily, as though he was a feather, and he was still trying to register the fact that he was in a rather derogatory position and - _how the heck is he so warm!? _Alfred was indeed emanating an unruly amount of heat, notwithstanding the icy weather. Not sweaty, but unbelievably warm. Cushioned by the near-impossible body temperature, Arthur would've admitted that it was a very impressive feat if he wasn't in the position that he was.

"What are you doing!?" he shrieked, almost dropping the flashlight and their only source of visibility, into the fathomless depths of oblivion beneath him. "Put me down this instant!" Alfred, of course, ignored his request and started to walk, very casually, through the dense forests.

"Mind shining the light in front of us?" he asked nonchalantly, a stupid grin stuck on his maw. "I don't particularly want to walk into a tree." Arthur didn't comply with his wishes.

"What in the bloody hell is wrong with you; I said _put me down!_"

"But you can't walk."

"I don't care, I'll crawl if I have to, this is a rather insulting way to travel! You absolute wanker, listen to me!"

"You use that word a lot," Alfred mused, half to himself. "'Wanker.' What does it mean?" Arthur was about to explain in full detail the definition of said word, had his position not lurched somewhat as Alfred had moved his body to avoid getting ensnared in the low, tangled branches of a nearby sapling. Contrary to the kicking and squirming motions he was undergoing to get out of the American's grip, he suddenly leaned into the barrel-chested teen, clutching at his black T-shirt as a low groan of fear flew from his lips, disguised as a steaming stream of white mist. The torch rested on his abdomen, rocking dangerously as though it was going to fall as Alfred's deep, throaty laughter filled the air. The trees had started to thin, granting easier access, yet that did nothing to appease Arthur's churning stomach.

"Stop! You bloody fool, you're going to drop me!" he cried, thumping his small fists against Alfred's chest desperately.

"Relax, Artie," Alfred chuckled in response. "I'm not going to drop you, I promise."

"How many times do I have to tell you _not to call me Artie_!?"

Uncharacteristically, he actually quietened down at the scathing remark, leaving Arthur to struggle weakly against his tight grip on his shoulder and legs. From the lack of speech, he was actually able to take in a bit about their surroundings. The forest had come to an end, leaving a wide open field in its wake that Alfred trudged through silently. Upon further inspection, the Briton noted that he had a look of thoughtful contemplation about him and walked with an oddly satisfying gait. His deportment was strangely lulling, resembling a rocking cradle, gently allaying Arthur. In fact, he found himself relaxing more into that non-existent smoothness, quaintly content.  
He recalled himself before he allowed his eyes to flutter shut and bolted up vehemently, rosy cheeked. Alfred didn't seem to notice his sudden jerking movement, and continued walking. A lunar light cast a fairytale-like glow on his features, inducing a ghastly aura to encircle his face. There was a weird elegance in his stride, one that Arthur hadn't noticed before. Yes, he was a clumsy American with no sense of balance or clemency, yet it was unexpectedly charming.

"I could call you Big Brows."

Arthur looked at him blanking, jogged from his daydreaming (or nightdreaming). "I'm sorry?"

"Have you_ seen_ those _things _on your face? They're _huge!_ At first, I thought they were caterpillars!"

As Alfred released a hearty laugh, the Brit felt his face heating up at an alarming rate. His eyebrows were a very sensitive topic; yes, he knew they were larger than average, but he didn't find that any reason to use such deprecating diminutives. "That's absurd!" he yelled ardently. "Ridiculous! I simply won't stand for you using these derogatory nicknames! Besides, there's _nothing _wrong with my eyebrows!" _What is wrong with this guy!? It's not like we're ever going to meet each other again…hell, he's foreign! He's probably just on holiday here or something._ Ranting off into a fervent tirade, fortunately dispelling Alfred's idea of using 'Big Brows' as a permanent nickname, Arthur scarcely had time to notice the area around them had changed completely. Without the dense trees pressing in on the duo, reaching out to kiss them with toxic branches and sweep poisoned leaves along their skin, the night sky was a myriad of stars, oblivious to all around them. A final protest of blinding light before they disappeared in oblivion forever. Some were already dead.  
When Arthur paused to take a breath from his outburst, he took a moment to marvel in the natural beauty flourishing around them. In fact, it looked slightly familiar. There must've been something about that crippled tree in the corner of the meadow, or the road trailing eastward up one of the many hills scattered around the clustering fields, all illuminated by moonlight. _Wait a minute…_

"I know this place," Arthur murmured. Perhaps in a memory, or a dream, or a dream about a memory, but it undeniably looked like a place that he knew. It didn't surprise him. After all, thanks to the lack of public travel after midnight, he usually had to make his own way back from town in a drunken manner, unless one of his alcohol-buddies was sober enough to give him a lift.

"Huh?"

"I can make my way back from here," he explained quickly. Honestly, he didn't want to stay in Alfred's arms any longer than necessary. That, and he still clung to the extremely thin hope that Crumpet might, just _might_, approach him if he was alone and not with the damnable American. He would have a better chance of running into her if he walked across the collection of fields.  
"So, you can put me down," Arthur urged. In spite of himself, it was rather comfortable being held as he was, but very pejorative. The last thing he wanted was somebody else to see him being carried, like a bride, across a field. Nonetheless, even though he'd tried to persuade Alfred to let him get home on his own, the other teen only stared at him, half-dumbfounded, half-reluctant.

"But, you can't walk…"

_Damn. I hadn't thought about that. _Arthur highly doubted that his twisted ankle had healed enough for him to walk from his current position over the crest of the hill on the horizon and further down to the place where the school bus had normally dropped them off. But he sure as hell wasn't going to admit that.

"It's fine," he insisted stubbornly. "My house is just over that hill." He gestured vaguely towards the dark mass rising out of the ground, just peeking over the skyline.

"Well that's convenient," Alfred murmured heartily. For a few seconds, it seemed like he'd finally let Arthur go. Alas, no. "It looks like there's a road over there, so I can drive you back!"

The Brit scowled, more irritated than he had been a few minutes ago at the mention of his new nickname. "Oh, for the love of – look, just put me down and I can _walk _back."

"Oh, come on Artie, that'll take you _forever._"

"Don't call me that!" he scolded crossly for the umpteenth time that night.

"But you don't want me to call you Big Brows."

"That's a very insulting nickname, you git!"

"What's a 'git'?"

His idiocy elicited a groan from Arthur's throat, disbelieving and annoyed. After a while of tense silence (well, what Arthur would've called silence, but Alfred didn't seem to care about the atmosphere as he just hummed a tuneless melody to himself), the Brit attempted to get out of his grasp for the umpteenth time. The landscape had changed yet again, revealing a gently sloping hill on which a road had torn through. Alfred had started to walk down the hedgeline, hoping that they might chance upon his car if they stuck close to the tarmac, urging his "delivery" to shine the torchlight on the ground so that he didn't slip up in the mud or trip on a rock. Arthur was really beginning to hate this method of travel; the American may have been warm, and…well, _comfortable _was the only way to describe it, but he could literally feel his ego and self-esteem fall down a little lower with every step.

"Alright, this has gone on far enough," Arthur sighed irascibly, shifting his whole body jerkily in order to try and plant his feet on the floor. Much to his further annoyance, Alfred seemed adamant on keeping him levitated, and only tightened his grip by pulling him closer to his chest.

"Hey, stop that," he chided, mocking a cross tone that a mother might take when scolding their child. "I might drop you."

"Then let go of me, fool!" the Brit snarled. An aggressive tenor had wormed its way into his voice, and he welcomed it. To be frank, he reviled the prospect of being carried all of the way home, or showing up on his drive with some random bloke who'd knocked him over. Perhaps it was because he really did not like the American, or his approaches to being "heroic" and being treated like a girl in his presence, or maybe it was because he still clung to the childish hope that Crumpet would materialize out of thin air the moment he was left alone. Either way, he most certainly did _not _want to stay in Alfred's company any longer than necessary. "I don't need you to escort me home!"

Just like every other argument that they'd immersed themselves in before that, the larger teen just brushed off his attitude as though it was nothing. "I'm not just gonna leave you out here!" he protested.

"Well, you should. I can take care of myself."

"I left you alone for ten minutes and you twisted your ankle."

"That doesn't mean that I'm hopeless, git!" Arthur flushed bright red, pressing his hands against Alfred's chest to push himself further away from his body. Unfortunately, he just hugged him even closer, practically crushing the smaller's fingers against his ribcage. To any passer byer, it might've even looked like they were snuggling. But, the half-fractious, half-disturbed expression on Arthur's face definitely gave away his inner thoughts on the predicament he was in.  
"What are you doing!?" he continued. "I said put me down, not c-c-cuddle me!"

Now it was Alfred's turn to blush, however he masked it expertly with a bellowing laugh, throwing his head back to the sky. In the dim lighting, it sent shivers down Arthur's spine, only reinforcing his want to get as far away from the other teen as possible.

"I'm just making sure you don't fall," Alfred responded, his electric eyes glowing like blue hellfire behind his spectacles. "Don't get so defensive."

"I'm not getting defensive!"

"Yes, you are."  
Arthur opened his mouth to yell another objection, yet he was cut off by the other's loud statement as he spotted the car, sitting proudly on the side of the road up ahead, exactly where they had left it two hours ago. He gulped, realizing that Crumpet was still nowhere in sight. It could've been a possibility that she'd have returned to the last place that she'd seen her master, yet that didn't seem to be the case.

"She's not there," he murmured, just loud enough for himself to hear. A gash in his heart opened up wide enough for all of his blood to spill out. But, the wound wasn't physical. It was emotional, and that only made it so much worse. For a few seconds, he felt like crying again…but he wouldn't. Not whilst he was still in the idiotic teen's arms and not whilst there was still somebody else with him. Wiping his nose on the arm of his jacket, which was just peeking through the bigger sleeve of Alfred's red coat, which he _still _had wrapped around himself, Arthur sniffed to mask a whimper. He obstinately refused to look any weaker in front of Alfred and break his pride any more than he had already that night.

As said teen neared the car, he rested Arthur unceremoniously on the bonnet, and (ignoring his complaints) rummaged in his pockets for the keys. A light jangling sound was heard as the metal clinked together, and the lights flashed bright orange as he unlocked the vehicle and gently laid Arthur down in the passenger seat. Even for a hefty oaf, he could definitely be tender at times, as proven by how he delicately fed Arthur's injured legs in through the door.

"I'm not a bloody woman," he muttered nervously, a scarlet tinge playing on his features. "You don't have to be so careful."

"I don't wanna hurt you," was Alfred's answered, followed by a bashful smile and a shrug. _Git. _Although the word was immensely clear in his mind, Arthur didn't utter it out loud and just scowled, pressing himself against the back of the car seat as the door slammed shut beside him. The lack of his furry, equestrian friend still left a cold, open pour in his chest, but he felt somewhat better at the fact that he'd actually at least tried to look for her. Perhaps if he stared out of the window, he might spot her, a horse shadow blemishing the meadows and fields as she galloped across the hills and dales. Yet, he had to be rational. In the space of time that Alfred and he had been searching, Crumpet could be anywhere. Adamant not to seem defeated, he tugged his own and the Yank's jacket tight, up to his neck, and stared glumly out of the glass that trapped him inside the vehicle.  
A hesitant pinky hue had started to run the sky an attractive shade of rose, blending with the impending darkness. The stars that had previously blazed across the horizon were faded into the blossoming colours of amber and tawny auburn, drowning in the early morning light. A few stray rays from the sun, trying to peek over the hummocks, glowed softly, a timid undertow to the disappearance of twilight. Arthur risked a glance at the digital clock positioned behind the steering wheel. _5:13am. _

"Shit," he muttered, clutching his temples as though he had a migraine. He might as well have, knowing that he'd stayed up the whole night in the blistering cold weather _and _ended up twisting his ankle. He doubted he'd be able to get home before his parents arrived home, and then he'd have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

"What?" Alfred asked, rubbing his hands together, massaging out the numbness that the icy winds had gifted him with.

"I'm never going to get home on time," Arthur growled, slumping, crushed, in his seat. He didn't even want to contemplate the fact that the same idiot who'd hit his horse would be driving him home. He _hated _that so much that it hurt. Why did the stupid Yankee have to insist on being all heroic and saving the day? It was hardly necessary, yet he was immovable and too stubborn to trust the Brit with the simple task of walking home alone. When Arthur chanced a glance at said teen, he was shot a mischievous grin. Something about the way Alfred's lips curled into that impish smile and the gleam behind his glasses spelled out trouble. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Hah, I can get you home with time to spare!" Alfred hollered proudly, his eyes glowing, not unlike a fierce jolt of oceanic-blue electricity. Without even waiting for his passenger to get comfortable or share his opinion on the danger of him driving a car, he'd clasped both of his hands around the steering wheel, removed the hand brake and slammed down his foot on the accelerator, all the while chuckling as though he was on a roller coaster. Arthur was immediately flung back in his seat, eyes wide and frightened as the car bumped back onto the road and sped across the tarmac, screeching aggressively and probably leaving scorched tire marks in its wake. Somehow, he regretted entering the car in the first place (not that he really had a choice) as the death-trap thundered down the country road, dust flying across the first few rosy streaks of morning. If one listened hard enough, they might've just been able to hear some very fine-tuned, posh-voiced shrieks echoing across the countryside that night.

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

_**A/N:**_

_And here's part two! ~  
Summer's on its way and we only have three more weeks left of school. Since I'm going to Scotland for a month during the holidays, I won't have any internet access, but that doesn't mean I won't be able to write any fanfictions! After all, I'll still have good ol' Microsoft Word. I might be posting a few new stories that I've been working on before I go, but I'll definitely be updating when I return.  
So, I hope you enjoyed this part! To be honest, I'm not really proud of it. Re-reading it, I find it slightly awkward and ungainly…ugh…that sucks. But, c'est la vie, I guess. _

_I would like to give a special thank you to PurpleLuna98, StarkidWolf, Marichinocherry, HeroicVal-Rye and Crazy rabbit2! I seriously appreciate all of your reviews and I'm so happy that you're enjoying it so far! You guys really encourage me to write more! Also, I'd like to thank everybody who added this story to their alerts and/or favourites list. Thank you very much, all of you. _

_So, there we go. I don't have much to say, other than that it's late and past my bedtime (hur, I don't have a bedtime). And no more tests or exams in school! Hooray!  
Please leave a review with your thoughts or any questions! _


	8. Chapter 8

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Part III**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

By the time Alfred had pulled the car up against the pavement, thoroughly spent from his night's work of horse-hunting, the twilight had dimmed considerably, giving way to a blissful summer morning complete with the sun rising softly over the neighbouring houses and flooding the street with amber light. The digital clock within the car read _6:37am_ before it flickered off, along with the guttural roaring of the vehicle's engine. Normally, his grandparents weren't up and about until half past seven, so he might _just _be able to get away with creeping to his room and falling asleep. They wouldn't mind if he slept until lunchtime, would they?  
Nonetheless, he realized it simply was not to be as his gaze fell upon the blaring lights of his father's study, and the silhouette moving within. No doubt he'd heard the car pull up and was moving to the front door.

_Oh shit, I'm screwed. _

The blond stifled a sigh, slumping backwards in the chair and hoping that he might just sink into it and become one with the car. Then, he wouldn't have to face the wrath of his dad. Truthfully, he was somewhat anxious of the man's temper. He'd never beaten him, nor had he abused him, but…it wasn't _pleasant_. How his eyes would narrow, and something just short of disappointment would flash across his face. Contempt? Complacency? _Scorn_, even? Whatever the emotion was, it couldn't be dissatisfaction since he never expected anything extraordinary of Alfred anyway. The teenager knew that much, and wasted time in the car by wiping sweaty hands on the leather seat behind him, running his fingers through his hair whilst expertly avoiding the protruding cowlick with the ease of long experience and moving his glasses as if they actually did aid his vision. There was no kidding himself, though. He knew he'd have to exit the car at some point in time, or his father would probably come and drag him out himself.

"Right. Just be brave," he muttered to himself, offering self-encouragement. "You can do this. Maybe he doesn't even know that you're gone…" An empty statement, but it was worth it, right? That hope was quickly dashed as Alfred moved his hand to get out of the car and saw the unmistakeable figure of James Jones standing in the doorway. Even though he was a handle of feet away, the teen could practically feel his icy blue gaze scorching his skin and bearing deep into the fathomless caverns of his soul. A chilly finger traced patterns across his spine as he, gulping and perspiring liberally, dared to take the first step out of the vehicle, feeling his trainer slap against the pavement. Despite the noise being at the same sound level as a mouse squeak, it seemed as loud as an explosion of thunder in the sky.

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…_

There was no use offering false consolation. Alfred was in for it and there was absolutely no escape. Pausing only to pull the car keys from the ignition, he sauntered away from the now-locked car with an air of anticipation. Although his body language was casual and cool, his deportment flowing smoothly as he carried himself up to the front step, his expression and the aura that surrounded him screamed out his discomfort and dread for the world to hear. A pool of metal, impossibly cold, had collected in the pit of his stomach and each step towards the house took a lifetime. Heart thumping wildly, a mess of fleshy muscle pounding with rehearsed unease against his ribcage, he finally halted, fingers furling and unfurling as he stared at his father. The larger of the two leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe, ostensibly bored. But his eyes gave away his true thoughts, although Alfred would not meet them. He could feel them, so cold that it _burned _against his skin, drinking in everything about him, reading his thoughts.  
_Why won't he say anything? _The two of them must've been standing there for at least a full minute, yet neither had uttered a word. Alfred hadn't dared to start the conversation, but he realized that if he didn't speak now, nobody would. Clearing his throat and straightening up, still adamantly refusing the lock gazes with his father, he spoke.

"H-h-hey, Dad." He cringed at how pathetic he sounded. He'd known how awkward it would be facing his family if he got home too late and managed to get himself into a confrontation with them, but he never thought it would be _this _bad. "Uhhh…good morning…?"

"Get inside. _Now_."  
Alfred could only obey, oppressed by that despotic gaze that followed him through the door. He could feel it scathing his skin; scrutinizing his face, scorching through the hair on the nape of his neck. He could only pray that he didn't look as pitiable as he felt, dolefully stood in the hallway. Floorboards creaking ominously beneath his feet, he stared down the corridor. There was no other sound or presence in the little house, save his own rapid heartbeat, attempting to crack his ribs and burst through his chest, and his father's stone-cold aura. Everything else was still and silent. _Where's Gran and Gramps? _he wondered sullenly. Alfred knew they were probably awake and awaiting his arrival in the front room. Damnit, those were the last people he wanted to face. Probably the nicest beings on Earth, both with tender smiles and gazes brimming with warmth and affection, he didn't want to imagine how they'd look at him once they realized what he'd done.  
Gulping and forcing a deep breath into his lungs, he shuddered and glanced uncertainly at James. Strangely, he wasn't staring at him anymore, and continued into the living room, gesturing sharply for Alfred to follow. And he did, albeit tentatively.

A deep, aquamarine carpet greeted his feet, and he almost forgot to remove his shoes, kicking them off clumsily and leaving them in the hallway, both stained with mud. By the time he'd moved back into the lounge, he found his father standing by the television aimlessly, his back turned as he stared at the mantelpiece where a collection of photographs had been lined up. Most were in black and white, fitting in perfectly with the typical "grandparents' house" theme. Alfred knew them well, often staring curiously at them as he lay on the sofa, too bored to do anything else. The first looked like a wedding photo; monochrome with a tall, handsome young man, stern faced in his suit and standing behind his bride, who smiled sweetly as she clutched his arm, a long veil trailing down over her shoulders. When his grandmother had caught him staring, she'd explained that they were her parents – his great-grandparents. A picture next to it was an oil painting, thick, bulky yet somehow delicately woven onto the canvas. It was a flower, blooming shyly with vibrant maroon petals stretching to all corners of the opus. The detail was immaculate, yet the image seemed out-of-place amongst the olden day photographs. Hung on the wall, hovering over the mantelpiece, were two more; one a freckle-faced lad with wispy hair and bright eyes, the other a beautiful maiden with a waterfall of liquid silvery trailing over her scalp and coming to rest on her upper back in an intricate braid.

One of the last pictures on the ledge had always caught Alfred's attention though. A few youths, all male, conversing jovially as they leant against a gigantic aircraft, frozen in a pose of laughter. One sat on one of the wings, nudging the others and gesturing flippantly towards the camera as he grinned. Every single one of them wore a bomber jacket, white airplanes imprinted on the shoulders, yet they had different symbols on the breast pockets. The one with the star on his jacket (and, not surprisingly, the one seated on the wing of the plane), Alfred's grandfather had explained to him, had been his own father and the picture had been taken during WWII since he'd been a pilot in the RAF. Upon further inspection, the teen had actually been able to see the resemblance. It was almost creepy. The man in the photo claimed to be his great-grandfather, who couldn't have been more than twenty years old at the time, even had glasses _and _a cowlick. It was as though someone had taken Alfred and imprinted him into the black-and-white image as an aviator. There were six other men in the photo, and they'd all been pinpointed and explained to the teen as he stared avidly at each face, drinking in all of the details. One stood slightly below the wing of the plane that Alfred's great-grandfather sat upon, with hair that trailed down to his neck, half-curled, a maple leaf etched onto the breast pocket of his jacket. With large eyes and a timid deportment, he looked _extremely _familiar, yet the American couldn't quite pinpoint who it reminded him of.

"_Your great-great-uncle_," his grandfather had said. "_My dad's brother, younger by about two years. He died during the Battle of Britain in 1940, about six years before I was born._"

Two men stood side-by-side, at the front, one larger and more muscular than the other with his helmet skewed across his head. His grin was wide, and his arm slung over his comrade's shoulder in such a way that it was near impossible to see the symbol on his jacket. A mess of light-coloured hair, silvery in the monotonous photo, framed his face and crowned his head as a few plasters spread themselves across his face. His friend, the smaller, was thin and elusive, his lips curled in a bashful grin as he fiddled mindlessly with the emblem on his coat, which seemed much too big for him, shaped as a flowing fern leaf. Despite their obvious differences in appearance, they both had incredibly thick eyebrows. _Thick eyebrows…_ Wow, that reminded him of something extremely important.

Another man, who actually looked more like a woman than anything else, chatted amiably to another. Long hair, perfectly straight and powdery grey in the photo (giving away that the man was blond), tumbled to his shoulders. Since he was turned slightly away from the camera, the masculine facial features slightly hidden from view, he honestly did look like a woman as he raised a hand to emphasize his point to his comrade. Strangely enough, the symbol emblazoned on _his _jacket was an eagle. Alfred's grandfather had explained that it was an odd choice since the German symbol was a black eagle, and he may have been mistaken for an enemy soldier if something went awry. But, that was all he'd said, other than he didn't know what had happened to most of the men who'd been friends with his father because, when he'd still been alive, he'd been unwilling to speak of the Second World War. Also seemingly blond, the feminine man's companion, who leant against the front of plane, appeared to listen intently to what he was saying, although his gaze was caught trundling upwards towards the camera. Upon his breast pocket was a roaring lion, facing sideways with its claws stretched out in front of it. Alfred hadn't understood, at first, why they had different symbols, but his grandfather had gladly elaborated, explaining that it was a personal 'thing' that the group of friends had held with them, all throughout WWII.

And, as for the last of the seven men positioned in the photograph, who sat next to Alfred's great-grandfather on the aircraft wing; he leaned upon his shoulder, a book clutched in his hands as he read fervently, oblivious to the commotion erupting around him. Two bushy eyebrows dominated his face, and etched on the front of his own bomber jacket was a rose, slightly circular shaped with the outline of another rose within. That was the man that Gramps had known most about in the photo, minus his own father and uncle. He had remember him as being a close friend who'd often joined his father for a pint at the local pub, been a wild drunk, and, in spite of yelling, shouting and scolding Alfred's great-grandfather on most occasions like an angry mother (or even wife), loved him like a brother. He'd been close to the whole family and become a pilot with the two brothers, great-grandfather and great-great-uncle, going into 33 Wing and 226 Squadron, and grieved heavily when the younger of the two had been killed in action. Alfred's grandfather had explained that their friendship had gone back quite a long way, since the man's family had always lived in a big manor house near Hawkchurch, somewhere in the countryside, and the Joneses had lived in the rural county for a handful of decades, since before the Great War.

"_It's a real shame_," Gramps had said wistfully at the end of his explanation. "_After my dad died, we seemed to lose connection with them._" He'd been referring to the rich family, the surname of which he could not recall. "_The oldest child of my dad's friend was a couple of years older than me, I remember. When I was a boy of eleven, he was eighteen and ready to inherit their family business. He might've been their only child. I'm not sure if he had any children himself. I'd imagine so, but we wouldn't have known since your dad moved away._"

Alfred found his gaze drawn back to the old picture and he stared at it for what seemed like hours until James _finally _moved, wrenching him from his thoughts. For the first time since he'd entered the room, he realized that neither Gran nor Gramps were there. _Where could they be, then? _The teen glanced through the half-open door apprehensively. Surely, if his father was awake, they would be up too. Right? A deep sigh forced his eyes back to said man, who'd turned and was facing him with an irritated frown.

"Alright," James began, soundly oddly calm. Alfred would've thought he'd be more pissed off, but that only made it worse. His expectations weren't entirely correct. "First, sit down." Following his orders, he plonked his ass on the nearest piece of furniture, the sofa, massaging the sweaty palms of his hands and biting the inside of his cheek. Another breath was taken. Then, an explosion. "What the _fuck _did you think you were doing?"

It was rare that his father swore in front of him. It was usually only when he was either very, _very _angry, or trying to get a point across. Alfred deduced that he might've been angry, but it was difficult to tell through his emotionless mask of cool, but he couldn't think why he'd be trying to get a point across to him, other than the dangers of driving or something like that. He doubted that he'd launch off into a rant about safety though. Perhaps with Matthew, but not with him. _He doesn't care enough about _my _wellbeing…_

"Uh…" the teen began awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. His hands needed something to do. He wouldn't just be able to sit there with them glued to his sides. It just didn't _feel _right for him to do nothing, especially in the given circumstances. So, he began to fidget, working his fingers, cracking his knuckles and staring down at his knees. Did that make him seem guilty, or bored? He wouldn't know. He was never good with reading emotions. Maybe that was why he couldn't tell if his dad was furious or not. He _should've _been.

"Well? _Well?_" Dad prompted, impatient. "What do you have to say, Alfred?"

What was he looking for? An apology seemed out-of-place in such a dense atmosphere, yet Alfred knew he'd have to say something rather than just open his mouth and wait for a sound to be produced.

"Uhm…I'm…I'm sorry…?"

"Wow." Mock sarcasm. He had never understood sarcasm. It always befuddled him how to Brits would "take the mick" out of themselves and their friends, or say something in a certain tone of voice whilst rolling their eyes without meaning it. It didn't matter how or why you said it. If you didn't actually mean it, it was either a joke or a lie. "Is that _all _you have to say? Really? You _steal _my fucking car for the night and come back at six in the morning, no, _passed _six in the morning."

And suddenly, it was a tirade. A bombardment of words being thrown at him from all sides. Some were laced with fury and rage, others hinted with sarcasm. But all of the time, James was pacing up and down, flailing his arms around, and not in a comical way. Insults, statements, rhetorical questions, all rained out of his mouth in probably one of the worst scoldings that Alfred had ever got and he had to sit there, listening to all of it. When he was younger, perhaps he'd have been smacked across the upper legs until he cried. Of course, he wasn't going to cry then, but he would've much preferred the smacking.

"You are a stupid child. Honestly, you're a _stupid _child. What the hell did you think you were doing? Were you thinking at all? No. You _weren't_. How do you think I felt when I checked your room and you _weren't _there? And then, my _car _was missing. Alfred, I was going to call the police. Do you know how serious this is? _This_ is _theft. _Do you understand that? _Do you understand? _You _stole _my car –"

And Alfred zoned out again, scowling and leaning on his knees. He was exhausted, yes, and he wasn't in the mood for this. For a few brief moments, he'd thought his father actually _cared _about him to phone the police and explain that his son was missing. But, oh no, he would've called the police _on _his son to explain that he'd stolen his car. _And he hadn't even stolen it! _There was a fine line between stealing and borrowing. Yes, it was stupid to take his car, but that didn't necessarily mean that he was stupid himself. How many times had he been called stupid in his lifetime? Quite a lot, if he remembered. Most of the time it was when he brought a test paper back from school, immensely proud with himself for what he had considered was a high mark, only to find that Matthew had gotten over double what he got. A painful memory of an English assessment came back to him. He'd been rushing home, dodging through the frozen taxis and burst through the door, shouting out how he'd gotten 41%. And Matthew had gotten 87%. Not the top in the class, but he'd still been praised. And what had Alfred got?

"_You could do better._"  
"_Why can't you be more like your brother?_"  
"_He was prepared for this test._"  
"_Stupid child._"

_Fucking dyslexia. _But this time, it wasn't dyslexia's fault. It was _his _fault. _His _fault that his dad favoured his brother. _His _fault that his dad had stayed up all night worrying. _His _fault that his gran might've had a heart-attack if they got involved with the police. _His _fault that they'd moved in the first place. _His fault, his fault, his fault._ Alfred grimaced. What was the reason behind him "stealing" his dad's car again? Was it because he would refuse to teach him to drive, or had there been some ulterior motive hidden in his subconscious, urging him to get as far away from the bungalow and Dad as possible? Either way, some force pushed him to his feet in the middle of James' rant, and some demonic presence erupted deep within him.

"_What do you want me to say_?!" he yelled. "I've tried, I really have! I've apologized, now what else?! _What else _do you want me to _do_?!"  
At the beginning of his outburst, his dad had clamped his mouth shut. By the time it ended, he had opened it again, knowing exactly what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say.

"I want you to stop acting like a child," he muttered darkly. "You're _sixteen _now, Alfred. Grow up, would you?"

Abashed, he glared haughtily at his father. A hardened, rock jaw, chiselled and bristling with youthful stubble, a few tones darker than his strawberry blond locks gave way to oddly smooth cheeks. Despite their fullness and the hair that speckled them, had they been shaved they'd have probably been like porcelain, easy to slide one's finger across. Two piercing blue eyes stared coldly at him, devoid of warmth or affection, sitting atop a short nose moulded with thin nostrils and a pointed tip. He did not harbour raging beauty, yet he wasn't ugly either. For a few moments, Alfred wished he were less attractive so he could dislike his appearance as much as he disliked his emotions. Even though this man was being cruel and unfair, he was still his father and somewhere, deep down in his heart, he still loved him. _Somehow_. Taking a shaky breath, Alfred opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off rather abruptly.

"Didn't you wear a jacket?" James muttered, frowning as he looked down at the simple black T-shirt that his son was clad in. "You'll catch your death out there. It's _cold_."

Despite how he almost – _almost _– seemed to care enough about his son to ask such a blunt question after giving him probably one of the most degrading rebukes ever known to teenagers, even Alfred could sense that there wasn't much caring, if any, in his voice. He hesitated, vaguely remembering the red coat that he'd been clad in as he rushed out of the door, strapped himself in…driving…  
His mouth parted into a small 'O' shape, and surprise lit up in his eyes as he recalled probably one of the most prominent events of the night. _Arthur. _Abnormally charming with a fascinating personality that Alfred wished he could've delved more into, the Brit had, undoubtedly, been one of the most attractive males that he'd chanced upon. And in such an unfortunate way too. He knew he shouldn't have, but flirting with Arthur had been amusing, especially as he'd been quite dense to the American's advances. Either that, or he'd just been cold purposefully, neither rejecting Alfred coy techniques nor properly accepting. That meant he was (well, _might be_, but he could dream, right?) a homosexual or just incredibly thick when it came to philandering, and Alfred seriously couldn't imagine the cute Englishman to be unintelligent, especially as he had such a gaudy vocabulary. _So…he might've actually been gay…_  
He masked a small smile at the thought. He doubted that he'd ever meet him again, partly because he'd seemed to live so far away and partly because he couldn't remember his address in the dark, yet he wouldn't have minded spending more time in the endearing Brit's company.

Alfred had accidentally loaned his jacket to Arthur after he'd delivered him home. The conversation had been brief as he'd pulled over just outside a looming, portentous structure that the smaller had claimed to be his home. It had looked more like a haunted mansion than a place where somebody would live. Once the Brit had caught his breath and ceased hyperventilating, since he'd been screaming, yelling and swearing throughout the whole ride, he'd instructed the American to go no further than where he'd parked (next to a meadow and quite a number of yards from the house itself) and attempted to leave the vehicle without any assistance. Thanks to his twisted ankle, he'd almost fallen onto the concrete, and had needed Alfred to aid him towards a hedgerow that had rimmed a field next to some stables before insisting that he could make it to the manor by himself. He still remembered the tears that had glistened in his jade eyes and the deep sadness behind them, although he honestly wasn't sure whether it was due to the fact that he'd lost his horse, he'd hurt himself terribly or some other hidden factor that Alfred hadn't known of. Either way, he'd reluctantly stayed to watch Arthur hobble painfully up the road and disappear behind a grove of tall trees. It was only when he'd started driving again that he realized he still had his red jacket. Nonetheless, it didn't matter. He had plenty of jackets, and he wouldn't miss that one. It wasn't special.

"No," Alfred lied, almost giddily. "I didn't have one."

"You idiot," James breathed, although it wasn't as harsh as his former tirade and came across as more of a jest. "Don't come crying to me if you get the flu."

"Fine," came his son's dismissive answer. The icy night winds against his bare arms had been stinging with frost, however he knew that Arthur would need more warmth than he since he was thinner and Alfred knew he had a strange ability to keep a constant body temperature. Although he could feel the cold, it didn't seem to affect him, outwardly or inwardly. The last time he'd had a cold was when he'd been five, and even then it had just been a runny nose. Matthew was always the one who got sick easily. Besides, the teen _liked _playing the hero, and would much rather swoop in to rescue somebody rather than stand by and watch as someone else suffered. In this case, Arthur had been suffering and he'd swooped in with his thick red jacket to "save" him.

"Go to bed," his father ordered brusquely, seeing the loose circles underneath Alfred's eyes for the first time that morning. "You look dreadful."  
Murmuring an obscure "thanks," he turned away, wanting nothing more than to just collapse in his bed and forget e_verything_. Except Arthur. Some things were better of remembered, even if Alfred had almost killed him by knocking him off of his horse and caused him to cry. More than once. He wanted to shudder, yet his body couldn't seem to find the strength to do so.  
"Oh, and Alfred," James continued, causing the teen to halt momentarily, his ears thirsting for what kind of words would leave his dad's mouth now. "Your grandparents don't know about this, and I don't mean to tell them. I wouldn't want them to be disappointed in you."

_What did he just say? Did he just say that he _wouldn't _tell them? _Positively perplexed, Alfred stared doubtfully over his shoulder, mouth wide open. He was mistrustful, not wanting to believe the words that his own father had said, yet the man wasn't smiling as though it were all some big joke. He didn't like that. _Why _wouldn't _he tell them? _It surely couldn't be mercy or some sort of reprieve. So, what was it? What made his father keep quiet? Yet, Alfred certainly wasn't urging him to be truthful. He didn't want his grandparents to think as lowly of him as his parents. _That _would just hurt too much, especially after all of the affection they'd showed towards him, affection that he'd previously been starved of.

And then he thought back to the car journey when James had interrupted his confession that he was gay. He wasn't being compassionate, or forgiving, or sympathetic. He was _ashamed. _Ashamed that they'd judge the both of them put together and blame him for Alfred's shortcomings. He knew that if he revealed what his son had actually done that night, he'd be impugned. There was no kindness or understanding. There was _nothing_. Suddenly feeling extraordinarily dizzy and sick, Alfred snapped his head around and power-walked to his room, wanting to bury himself in his duvet and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. If he was lucky, he wouldn't wake up until supper time.

_If he wants to be like that, I don't care. _Perhaps he should've been grateful for his father's silence, but he certainly didn't feel like thanking him. The light '_tep tep_' sounds from the floorboards above signalled that his grandparents were awake and mobile, shuffling across their bedroom and preparing to come down to prepare breakfast and whatnot. Alfred honestly couldn't care less, and he hoped absent-mindedly that they wouldn't mind him sleeping late into the day, closing the bedroom door behind him with more force than necessary. The walls vibrated as he continued and slumped onto the duvet, still ruffled from last night, kicking off his jeans and replacing them with a pair of red striped shorts and tearing his T-shirt over his head. He collapsed, swiping his face to search for signs of tears, since he didn't know if he'd let some loose in the brief time that he'd stormed from the living room – there were none, thank God – before removing his glasses and wrapping the blankets around himself, encasing his entire body in a soft prison. It may have proven to be too hot for it, but he honestly couldn't find the capacity in his brain to care.

Poking his face through an opening in the swathe of sheets, Alfred stared mindlessly through the window and at his clock. The digits read _7:09am, _and he could just about see the rising sun over the field, illuminating the shapes of cows below and the fresh grass sweeping in the breeze. A sea of rippling blades. It would've been a beautiful morning had his mind not been tainted with negative thoughts, and he almost- _just almost _– let himself cry. In situations like this when he'd argued with his father (his mother wasn't exactly…an argumentative person), Matthew would always be waiting to listen and console him. But there was nobody beside him, sitting on the bed to hear his rants nor was there anyone to offer him words of kindness and solace that he knew weren't true. Matthew wasn't there. Matthew was in _France. _That thought alone was enough to make him weep, yet he held in it bitterly, trapping the tears that threatened to fall behind his irises. Alfred felt them, hot, and desperately wanting to seep down his cheeks, yet he wouldn't let them. He _never c_ried, and he wouldn't succumb to such emotions now of all times.

Instead, he smiled. It was a little smile, obviously forced, but a smile all the same. Peeking through the covers, his lips stretched outwards and curled upwards. If he smiled enough, maybe the day would get better when he awoke. Maybe he'd wake to the smell of delectable food floating through his closed door and his grandmother's grin, and his grandfather's brilliant jokes and playful teases. That would make him feel much better, he knew. And so he fell into slumber, exhausted by the night's activities and hoping for a brighter tomorrow.

Dreamful and cavernous. Just the way he liked it.

**...xXx…xXx…xXx…**

_**A/N:**_

_I'm sorry that this is late. I think the last time I updated was about a month ago…darn. Well, it was either a mild case of writer's block or I was just being lazy. I believe I was just being lazy, since writer's block is, I understand, a serious condition…ish…I don't know, I just wanted to sound intelligent there. So, here's part three and I hope you enjoyed it! Just to highlight and explain a few things in this chapter:_

_The photo. Many of you might be thinking, "what relevance does that photo have" and "why did the author go into so much detail?" Well, this was an idea that struck me as I was writing since I needed _something _to fill up the empty space between James' scolding and Alfred arriving home. Originally, it was just supposed to be a photo of his great-grandfather, but of course I added more detail than necessary.  
Basically, I based the people in the picture on the countries involved in the Battle of Britain (yes, I know that America wasn't involved in the Battle of Britain, but his great-grandfather had to be somewhere in the photo. It's relevant in later chapters). His great-great-uncle represents Canada, hence the maple leaf on his bomber jacket. The guy with the plasters on his face represents Australia, and his little buddy with the fern leaf was New Zealand. Since Australia doesn't really have a confirmed "emblem", I just decided to hide it. I thought it would be a little weird putting a kangaroo on his jacket.  
Next, the guy who looked like a girl was supposed to be Poland. The white eagle is the symbol of Poland, just like the black eagle is the symbol of Germany (and was the symbol of Prussia). The person who Poland's ancestor/doppelganger was talking to was Czechoslovakia, who doesn't have a personification, so I just made it up. And, last but not least, the thick-browed friend was, of course, Arthur's great-great-uncle, or whatever. Hurhur, I love historical connections. _

_Phew, long explanation there, but I hope that enlightened some people. Anyway, with the whole WWII thingy going on, I was thinking of writing a quick one-shot, featuring Alfred's great-grandfather (also called Alfred) and Arthur's great-great-uncle (who is, coincidentally, called Arthur also). Just to…I dunno….add to my stories list. It will probably link back to this story somehow, and it __might __be M-rated. Either way, it'll just be a quick one/two-shot to ease my mind. Maybe._

_So, that's all I have to say, other than I don't particularly like anything about this part or the one after it because nothing actually happens. Well, I have to do some sort of aftermath to the accident though, right? Otherwise it just doesn't seem right. _

_Thank you to TheHeroicAmerica, Marichinocherry (again), xxalexisurgodxx (especially for pointing out the silly mistakes I made) and Grell-lover-4ever. I appreciate all of your reviews, and I hope that you've been enjoying the story so far. There'll be much more to come in the future, I promise.  
And thank you to all of the wonderful people for adding this story to their favourites list and alerts! I'm so happy for all of your support! _

_Thank you for just reading this story as well! Please leave any thoughts or questions in a review. _


	9. Chapter 9

**...xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Part IV**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

Dying moonlight bathed the sheets a pale rose-pink, playing with the intricate designs on the duvet and teasing the violet patterns that spread out across the carpet on the floor. It was oddly cold, though the window was closed, and the curtains hung still, undrawn and letting only the smallest slivers of light through. Silvery, it wreathed across the bedroom, a long finger that poked the blankets tentatively, worming all across the floor. Shadows draped the areas that it didn't touch, deep, marble grey and dim. Not as impenetrable as the blackness outside though, Arthur noted. He lay, breathing deeply, with his eyes wide open and staring at his chest of drawers. Somehow, his mind was alive, racing with colourful thoughts and images that warded off sleep. Despite spending most of the night and morning outside in the cold, he could not find himself tired enough to fall into a slumber. His ankle ached, not as painful as the burning sensation that had ripped through it before when he'd been limping up the drive, but a dull throb in the early hours of the morning.

He didn't dare check what the time was on his clock. If his hunch was correct, it would be coming up to half past six. A sleepless night – huh…Arthur wasn't unused to those. He was restless, stubborn to the advances of sleepiness, yet he didn't move and stayed rooted to his spot, hollowed in the mattress. Something bound him there, and whether it was the fear of waking his parents or brothers if he dared to move or the fact that he was in quite a comfortable position where he lay – _wait, this position wasn't comfortable at all _– he wasn't sure. His injured leg was stretched out awkwardly under the heavy duvet, whilst he curled the other up to his abdomen. Arms snaked around one of his pillows as though it were a real person, he supported his neck with his shoulder. It wasn't very practical for sleeping.

Just mere minutes ago, Arthur had been limping across the field towards the stables, the mad hope that he might be able to haul himself through the branches of his familiar oak tree and through the window that would lead him to his bedroom running through his mind. Terrified that the rev of Alfred's stupid car would arouse his family from their dreams, he'd adamantly insisted that he could make his way to the manor house alone. Even though he'd sourly regretted that decision as he'd dragged himself over to the great building, a silhouette waiting in the rays projected from the moon silently voiced to him that his final resolution had been rather sensible. He hadn't expected it, and almost jumped out of his skin when he saw the figure waiting by the stone structure of the stables, but Cillian had been standing there since three in the morning. The redhead had shuffled from his dwelling by the gatepost, shamrock eyes glittering murderously, and strode down to where Arthur struggled through the meadow. His words had been clear, the conversation quick and short.

"_You're an idiot, you know that?" _he'd cursed. "_What in the name of fuck did you think you were doing, going out riding at a time like this!? I've been here for the best part of three hours, worried _sick _about you. When Allistor said you hadn't come back from the stables, I'd thought that you were just throwing a strop, but it's six o'clock, Arthur! Six o'fucking clock!" _

The thought that Cillian had actually been worried was puzzling enough – he never appeared to care for anyone but himself – and Arthur couldn't for the life of him think why he was so pissed about him returning home at six in the morning. It was a tight schedule, but he'd wandered through the gates at later than that before, reeking of alcohol and sometimes tobacco. Wisely, he'd decided to leave that out in his explanation, deducting that his eldest brother was ignorant to his secret nightlife, just like their parents. He never knew anything about him anyway, not even his _birthday_. He often got his age muddled up as well, believing him to be fourteen rather than sixteen. That fact alone was incredibly irritating, more so that Alfred, the American twit who couldn't drive to save his own life, had mistaken him for being _thirteen_.

"_So, what the heck were you doing, then?_" Cillian had questioned forcefully, his freckled face almost scarlet with rage. His voice sounded a million times more aggressive with the Irish accent surging through it, harsher and grittier than before. "_Tell me why I saw one of the fucking horses galloping across the meadows, _without you on its back, _with its saddle and reins on. Tell me!_"

Yes, apparently Crumpet had managed to find her own way home, uninjured, but severely spooked to the point that she'd reared in fright upon seeing the redhead student waiting for her by the stables. He'd dealt with her accordingly, untacking her and leading her back to her stall where she'd allegedly been by the time Arthur had returned. The news that she was unhurt and safe had been like a Godsend, and he'd almost broken down crying from sheer relief. Yet, he hadn't, knowing he'd have to explain to Cillian his reasons for doing so. Reluctantly, suspiciously, he'd elaborated, wanting nothing more than to get to the sanctuary of his room. The nip of the night air on his face had started to feel painful and he swore the liquid in his eyes would freeze if he stayed outside much longer. That, and his leg had started to feel more and more uncomfortable, throbbing inconsistently as he stood, explaining his situation and listening his brother's outraged reprimands. There hadn't really been anything to say, other than argue back, and Arthur had _not _been in the mood. He'd wasted all of his words on Alfred.

The Brit scowled, glaring at the red jacket, smeared with mud and grass stains, slumped over the armchair by his window. He'd only realized, after Cillian had escorted him (rather vehemently, since he'd grabbed his wrist and effectively dragged him back to the house) to the front door, and hissed quietly at him as he limped up the steps, that he'd still been wearing the bloody thing. The stupid American must've forgotten to remind him about it, which made Arthur feel both idiotic and scatter-brained. What was he supposed to do with it? It wasn't like he'd wear it anywhere- it was much too big! Nonetheless, he'd still thrown it to its final resting place, upon the arm of the chair he never used, and found himself staring viciously at it as though it were the Yank himself. That goofy grin that had been stretched across his face had been just about enough to make his blood boil.

What on earth had made him so…touchy-feely? At first, Arthur had been too shocked to do anything other than gawk as the idiot had wrapped his head (albeit badly) in bandages, offered him his coat and carried him, bloody _bridal style _back to the death-trap car that had almost killed both him and horse. But, afterwards, he'd become incredibly sceptical, especially as he'd tried to physically aid him up the drive when he'd stumbled. Gentlemanly behaviour was definitely not frowned upon by the Brit, but…he hadn't been able to stop thinking that Alfred had been oddly…well, _affectionate. _Almost as though he was treating him like a woman. Not that Arthur was sexist, of course, but all of those 'kind' acts had been the sort of pick-up attempts at wooing a silly little high school girl. Most of the clichés had been ticked, what with the whole 'being his saviour' in the forest literally trying to sweep him off of his feet. He felt a bit foolish that he hadn't picked up on the strange, strange American's actions until he'd lay down and properly had a chance to think everything through, but the thoughts just wouldn't stop irritating him, delving deep into the parts of his mind. _Such a peculiar concept… _All of Alfred's actions must've been unorthodox, for they were far too caring and ungainly to be classified as just being helpful. Had he harboured an ulterior motive? What exactly had he been doing? What exactly had he been _thinking_?

Huffing irately, Arthur closed his eyes in another futile attempt to bid sleep to come. It didn't, and the action only proved to make him more agitated. He didn't particularly want to get up and face his parents later in the morning. What if they'd noticed his absence? _No…_ he doubted it, since the last his mother had seen of him was went he'd been hastily scrambling up to his room. She'd been oblivious to the fact that he'd even left the house. Either way, he was still reluctant to move from his position. It wasn't cosy, yet his limbs felt heavy, leaded and weighed down with fatigue, so much so that it was simply too much _effort _to do anything other than just lie there.

Arthur didn't know how long he'd actually been resting there, the duvets collapsed on top of him, but by the time he'd started concentrating on the sounds outside of room, he was aware that somebody was moving around. Thumping steps, signalling that someone was awake and active on the second floor, most probably Dylan since the other brothers didn't awaken until much later. Unless his assumptions were wrong and it was later than he anticipated. The moonlight beams had been replaced with a few hazy streams of rippling amber, softly simmering against the carpet and generating all of the colours of the sunrise upon the panelled walls. Dust motes floated in the atmosphere, miniscule shiny specks of light that danced across the flourishing sunshine lazily, completely carefree. Arthur envied them and their easy journey, drifting through the air without a concern or worry or trouble. How different it would be to lead a life like a fragment of dirt. Then again, that would be fairly dreary as well.

Forgetting the pain in his leg for a few seconds, the Brit turned over and hissed, feeling the sharpness jar through his ankle and vibrate along his shin. _Shit. Note to self: don't move too much. _The previous noises of footsteps were soon accompanied by a repetitive rhythm of sloshing liquid, so Arthur deduced simply that whoever was conscious was in the shower, and it was definitely either Dylan or Allistor, since he could hear the water originating from the bathroom beside his room. He decided that once the mystery person was done doing their business in the shower, he would attempt to get up, even if his leg ached terribly. It wouldn't do to just stay in bed all day. He would be going to boarding school soon, and he had to prove that he was well enough to do so.

With an abrupt realization, Arthur recalled that he would actually be leaving in just two days' time. It had already been arranged that Arthur would catch a bus to Bristol and board a train there that would take him up to York, North Yorkshire. He was content with the idea of publicly travelling, since the other option would've been that his father drove him for the entire five hour journey. Had Allistor obtained his driving license, he would've gone with him instead (since Allistor would've dropped him off en-route to Edinburgh) which would've been about five times more acceptable, but one hundred times more stressful. He preferred taking a train, to be brutally honest about it. Also, it meant that there wouldn't be too much fuss about him trying to get his guitar out of the stables. Obviously, he'd be taking that with him, yet he'd have to smuggle it away somehow without either of his parents noticing. It seemed that they trusted him enough to at least get to the bus stop alone, so he could swindle it away whilst saying farewell to the horses. And then he'd be free, _at last._

Away from all of the tiresome religious practices, away from church, away from his suffocating Bible lectures. Just, _away. _And he wouldn't have to deal with any of the shit that such a perfectionist family loaded onto him anymore. Oh, the joys of boarding school! Arthur only wished it could've been further away. Although his family weren't expecting any phone calls, e-mails or letters from him, a five hour drive away was still inconvenient. He was still in the same country as them which didn't help matters. Then again, he wasn't bilingual, so if he were going to an English-speaking boarding school, he'd have either had to look extremely hard or go to America. And thus, the thoughts of Alfred F. Jones flooded back into his head.

_Bloody hell, why am I still thinking about that arse-brained Yank!? _Scowling, Arthur craned his ears for a noise that wasn't there anymore. The torrent of water from the shower had ended, meaning that he'd have to force himself to get up. There wasn't any physical activity that he was particularly ravenous on doing, but he still had hopes of visiting the stables, just to check Crumpet and see if Cillian's words had been true or not. And maybe he could catch up on some guitar practice. Thankfully, he didn't have a hangover though he'd downed some whiskey and beer, so Arthur just propped himself up onto his elbow, discarding both his pillows and sheets. He hadn't changed out of his night clothes, still sweat-slathered and grimy with mud, so he shrugged them off before trying to move.

Wincing as a splintering ache exploded in his shin, which was now starting to swell, Arthur just lightly touched his toes to the ground. It _did _hurt, but if he tried to manoeuvre himself correctly and put as little weight as possible on it, he might just be able to stumble across the room, have a shower and get outside without causing too much of a fuss. Easier said than done. Bare-chested, he fumbled in the dimness of the bedroom for his robe, illuminated only by the cascade of orange light, and wrapped it loosely around himself, being sure to obscure the dark angel wing tattoos on his back. It just wouldn't do if one of his brothers managed to spot the lingering ink. In fact, he might as well have just died if they did. It would've been better than facing his parents. Proceeding to remove his jeans, which had left a nice red line across his waist where they'd been digging in all night, Arthur shuffled through the door and into the hallway.

Luckily, there was nobody there, and whoever had occupied the shower beforehand had moved on. Taking a short amount of time to wash himself and apply deodorant, he just staggered back to the safety of the bedroom again, clutching the walls for support. Family portraits glared down at him, the rebellious teenage boy tripping down the corridor, their eyes gleaming under their thick locks of wiry hair known as eyebrows. Some had nimble and delicate features, gently curving and not so bad to look at. Others wore pensive expressions, their jawlines bold, jagged and sculpted to match the dark colour of their hair. Arthur knew which side of the family was most reminiscent in his features, that was for sure. Much like the young ladies with hair sewn from fine, golden silk, his facial construction resembled that of a child, not abundantly boyish, but only holding a few streaks of pubescent masculinity here and there. Sometimes he was grateful for his eyebrows for they made him look stronger and brasher, more like a man. Not that he wanted to look like a complete and utter brute though. He'd rather look sophisticated, yet wild…an abnormal combination, yet somehow it worked with both his fashion sense and personality.

Once within his haven again, Arthur just tugged on a couple of clean clothing items, laid out neatly in his scarce chest of drawers. He would have to get most of his attire – that hadn't already been packed – washed again before adding it to his bulging suitcase. It was problematic trying to tug on some chinos but, with a few whines and yelps of agony along the way, he managed to fully clothe himself and began half-hopping, half-walking (purposefully) down the hall. The stairs awaited him, yet they proved to be an easily overcome obstacle, especially since he had the support of the banister. It was once he was in the entrance hall, walls stretched out far away from each other with a vast yawning space in front of him, did he check the time on the great grandfather clock in the corner. Its pendulum swung cyclically, a mesmerising instrument of hypnotism that had used to lull him to sleep when he'd been a toddler, watching with rapt fascination as it swayed back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth…Arthur snapped out of his childhood sonata with a twitch of his neck and a flick of his hair. What time was it again? Oh yeah. _7:39am. _

He could pass for some tea to calm his head, he decided, and milled around in the kitchen for a few moments, leaning on the counter to support himself, before he sensed the presence of another being strolling around the house. Just as he was leaving the pot to brew on the stove, a flutter of footsteps upon flagstones alerted his ears and Arthur briefly glanced over his shoulder. He snorted. In the doorway, tall and lanky with a bundle of damp hair falling onto his shoulders was Dylan. His jaded gaze was focused on the blond, staring with rapt tiredness at his heavy deportment. Following a brief flash of surprise that swam across his eyes, he shuffled to a counter not-to0-far, yet not-far-enough and fished a mug out of the drawer, most probably to make himself a cup of tea or coffee.

"I thought you'd have gone out again last night," he muttered simply. Dylan was due to leave for Wales to attend university in three days, travelling in much the same way as Arthur, though he'd be catching a train to Cardiff across the Channel instead of York.

"No," his younger brother snorted irritably. "I just…stayed in the stables…" The lie was jagged, tasting somewhat sour on his tongue, but Dylan either didn't notice or didn't care.

"Cillian was worried." His response to Arthur's explanation was blunt, simply stating the obvious as the blond fiddled around the pot, filled to the brim with infusing tea and wondered whether he should reprieve the teacup waiting at the edge of the counter. He traced patterns across the hot surface, lost in thought for a few minutes. All he could manage after a while was a scowl at the reminder of Alfred's wide, uncaring grin and the mischievous glint behind his glasses. _Such an idiot. _Arthur wondered what on Earth had compelled the fool to go driving so late anyway, despite being underage. Then again, he could say the same for himself with his erratic drinking habits. After the briefest of brief frowns had passed from his maw, he clutched the cup fervently and started to slosh the freshly concocted tea inside, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't want to continue his conversation with his brother, yet it seemed inevitable as he started to slowly and painfully make his way from the room, struggling to put any weight on the calf that he'd twisted out in the forest last night.  
"Why are you limping?" Dylan asked, raising an eyebrow once he'd moved over to where Arthur had been previously standing, kneading his own mug through his fingers.

Arthur paused, scooping up various replies until he settled on something short and menial that didn't require much, if any, elaboration. "I slipped on the stairs." Without awaiting any further interrogation, he had fled from the kitchen and hidden himself away in the drawing room, seated uncomfortably on the piano stool. He had no aching desire to play such an elegant instrument, especially since his parents had showed no signs of awakening, yet he found some solace knowing that Dylan would probably retire to the living room, or dining room to sip his tea, or coffee, or whatever beverage he'd been fetching. Arthur wasn't exactly bothered. He leaned back comfortably, staring spacily out of the window to the right side of the room. Thick curtains had been drawn, silky velvet tumbling down to graze the wooden floorboards, but he could still just about see the sun crumbling into view, a few rays bypassing the gnarled roots of the oak tree that he used to climb down so often. It struck him as odd how he'd be leaving all of it behind.

Holidays never counted since they weren't permanent, but Arthur suddenly found himself nervous about moving up to North Yorkshire. He was ecstatic, of course – why wouldn't he be? – but a deeper sense of foreboding had started to worm its way into his mind, adding a heavier, colder feeling to all of the positive thoughts he'd been previously conjuring. They weren't "what if"s, nor were there doubts…they were more of concerns about his new life. He was fairly independent, he knew. He'd survived through high school all alone, hadn't he? _Boarding_ school was something new entirely though. Despite the "college", ahem _school, _looking very welcoming on the website, with its rustic location and traditional atmosphere along with seemingly cosy dorms for Sixth Formers, Arthur knew that it would be difficult to settle down. He didn't mind being away from family, but the school looked awfully big and this wouldn't just be the simple transition from primary school to high school. This would be his higher education and he _had _to get it right, otherwise he'd find himself permanently wedged under his parents' roof with a terribly paid job at a greasy garage as an engineer. He shuddered visibly at the thought, a few drops of tea speckling onto his fingers.

Lifting the cup to his mouth, Arthur sipped daintily, relishing the cool taste, not too sweet yet not plain. He always allowed the steam to dissipate so that he didn't burn his tongue, but this time, he could still feel uncomfortable warmth ebbing away on the inside of his cheeks. It mildly scalded his mouth, detracting from the wonderful experience of indulging himself in a cuppa in the morning. Not majorly, but enough to provoke a frown. _Enough with the negative thoughts. _He didn't need to delve too deep into his future. All that mattered was that he was finally going to get some peace by moving away from his parents and brothers and that his life was finally able to begin without somebody breathing down his neck and secretly instructing him exactly what to think, do, say and believe.

A tight churning sensation erupted in his stomach as he finally set the piece of ornately crafted china down on the coffee table, reminding Arthur of something he should have done the moment he'd gotten out of the shower and dressed into remotely passable attire. Eyes widening at his immense forgetfulness, he was on his feet, albeit whimpering slightly at the abrupt pressure he applied to his foot, and hobbling towards the front door in a matter of minutes. The creaks and groans from the ceiling only accelerated his progress, as he realized that his father was probably awake and preparing himself to depart for work. Considering he hadn't had a _real _conversation with John Kirkland since he'd been a boy, long years before he'd reached adolescence and even longer years before his father had grown solemn and sombre in the twilight of his youth, discussions between the two were often brief and bitter, and Arthur had no desire to share any words with the middle-aged capitalist. His timing was immaculate, for no sooner had he opened the door, shoved on some shoes and started down the stone steps towards the familiar horse stalls, Mr Kirkland was walking down the staircase to prepare himself a cup of tea to start the day. His son was too far away to notice though.

He limped across the fields that he'd traversed about two hours or so before, his eyes fixed to the place where he knew his horse would be awaiting. An apology was quivering on his tongue, as were many sweet, comforting words for his dear friend, Crumpet, and his hands trembled with the rashness of his actions last night. He would _never _forgive himself for being so…so…_childish. _Nor would he forgive his brothers, especially not Cillian. Although it struck Arthur as incredibly odd that he actually gave two craps about him, he did not want to hold that fact in his heart. After all, Cillian was Cillian and most probably incapable of caring about anything other than himself. But, what did Arthur know? He hadn't seen him for the best parts of two years, so his eldest brother's life remained a shrouded mystery, one that he didn't want to probe into.

The blond reached the stables behind schedule, hindered by the troubles his leg caused him. He only hoped that the injury healed by the time he was off to boarding school. The last thing he needed was his mother fretting over him and asking questions, or his first week of freedom to be ruined by something that could've easily been prevented. Wedging his hands by the great, oak doors, he grunted as he pulled them apart, the usual musty smell and scent of horsiness wafting up his nostrils. It was like home, friendly and hospitable. The rafters overhead looked no different to how they'd been last night, and the cobblestones dipped and crumbled in their normal formation beneath Arthur's feet. Probably the only changed was the glass embedded in the soft peat outside, dried whiskey staining it murky orange and saturating the ground around it, a tainted blessing to the earth. Either way, Arthur was not searching for things that he already knew would be waiting for him. Instead, his eyes raked the stalls desperately. _What if Cillian had been lying? What if she's actually hurt, or if she's not here? _

His pleas for her safe return must've been answered, for when he looked for a second time, this time being more careful with ears and eyes wide open for noise or sight, he heard an acquainted nicker of greeting and noticed a flash of sandy fur behind the stable door, complimented by those same deep eyes that he'd missed so much last night. Arthur barely had enough words to express his joy at seeing her again, this time at home within reach, and instead found himself in her stall, burying his face into her neck whilst crooning apologies. His arms were flung around Crumpet's neck, hands holding her downy fur as though it were a lifeline. To his pleasant surprise, she did not rear her head away or push at him with her muzzle, remembering the unfortunate events of their annulment, but instead nuzzled his shoulder with affection, snorting lowly. Arthur smiled gently, running his fingers through the fleece as though he'd forgotten everything about his horse, exhaling shakily. He'd almost lost her, his only friend. Was it sad to consider her a friend in the first place? Nonetheless, he did, and he wouldn't trade her for the world.

"I'm so, so sorry," he whispered remorsefully, knowing that Crumpet wouldn't be able to understand him anyway. Either way, he hoped that his loving tone and cosseting expressed his sorrow if the content if his words couldn't. After he believed that his stupidity had been at least quarterly justified, Arthur took a hesitant step backwards, falling into the hay. Golden stalks tickled his cheeks, swathing him in an odd sensation of being pricked yet cuddled at the same time. A sigh of relief left his lips at the sudden weight that had been lifted from his leg, and he took the moment of solitary peace as an opportunity to check his injury. Although no longer swollen or inflamed, it still appeared tender and burned to touch. It looked like he wouldn't be doing anything too strenuous for a while. Arthur didn't really mind about that though. The only loss would be horseriding, and he didn't particularly want to stress out Crumpet any more than he needed to by taking her on a long ride. Then again…he wouldn't be doing that for a while.

Since he'd be attending a boarding school, he wouldn't see Crumpet until he came back for the holidays. He doubted he'd want to return during half-term, but Christian holidays like Christmas and Easter would be mandatory unless he wanted to have his arse handed to him on a plate by his father. _Damn. _Arthur hadn't actually thought about that. He frowned up at the honey-coloured mare from his position on the ground. He didn't _want _to leave her behind, but he highly doubted he'd be able to take her with him. Firstly, the school definitely wouldn't allow it since it didn't appear as though they had any riding facilities, and secondly, he had no means of transportation to take her. It wasn't like he could just fold her up and shove her into his full-to-bursting suitcase.

"Looks like I won't be spending any more time with you for a while, girl," Arthur sighed. If he had the strength, he would've gotten up to give her a pat, but he didn't, so he just lay there. He knew that in his absence, his mother would take good care of her and the other horses, meaning that he'd have to clean the alcohol out of the tack room, just in case she managed to discover it. Crumpet whinnied softly and lowered her head towards him, rubbing the tip of her nose against his chest. The blond teen just grinned delicately, running his palm from her forehead to her muzzle. An odd thought suddenly struck his mind. _If Crumpet were a human, what would she look like? _A strange question to ask himself, he knew, but he still began to paint a picture in his mind of what she'd look like as a girl. _Blonde hair, probably…and her eyes…? Brown? _Arthur wasn't entirely sure. Humans were a species he wasn't particularly fussed about anyway. If Crumpet were actual a human, he couldn't imagine her as being anything but a kindly woman, somehow motherly. _Not a friend. _He decided that he preferred her as a horse. He didn't need _human _friends anyway. Most of them were just insolent backstabbers.

Why was he thinking of Alfred again? He wasn't a backstabber. Unlike most, he'd actually _helped _him. _Why am I defending him…from myself!? _Arthur justified, as he rubbed his eyes, that he must've been absolutely crazy. Somehow, the stupid American had wormed his way into his mind again. It must've been from lack of sleep, he deduced, realizing that the heaviness in his bones was just because of the unbearable fatigue. After all, he hadn't slept properly for two nights in a row. It was understandable that he was lazy, too lazy to get up and go all of the way back to the house and collapse in his own bed. Besides, Arthur preferred the cocoon of haylage, surrounded by convivial scents and sounds to the old-fashioned blandness of his bedroom any day.

Hence why he drifted off to sleep in a matter of minutes, Crumpet watching over his peaceful form dutifully, how a mother might watch over her child. Or perhaps, how a friend might silently protect another friend.

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**END OF CHAPTER II**

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_**A/N:**_

_Yes, I know this chapter is both late and boring. I seem to be obsessed with ending each chapter with someone falling asleep. I wasn't entirely sure how to end this, so I just added a bit of…I dunno, horsey fluff? I'm not really sure what you call that.  
So, this is the end of Chapter Two. I promise that there will be more action after this. And, we'll get another glimpse of Mattie! In fact, the beginning of Chapter Three is told from his point of view. It includes an introduction of France, Monaco, Seychelles and Belgium. _

_I'm not very happy with this chapter for obvious reasons. There isn't much dialogue and it's just generally uninteresting. With Arthur's brothers: even though they don't express it much, they do actually care about him. Cillian isn't oblivious to the fact that he drinks, since he did find his alcohol storage, but he doesn't know that he goes out and gets drunk on a regular basis, hence why he's so angry and so shocked to find him stumbling back at God-knows-what time. And when Dylan asked him about his ankle, he was genuinely concerned about Arthur's physical wellbeing. He wondered if something bad had happened to him._

_I should really stop rambling. Anywho, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I do hope that you will enjoy the change of scenery the next time I update. Hopefully, it'll be before I go on holiday to Scotland. _

_Thank you very much to Marichinocherry, nekochan-lovers and PurpleLuna98 for reviewing! I appreciate the fact that you all took some time out of your day to comment on what's happened so far.  
And thank you to all of the people who added this story to their favourites list and alerts! All of you are amazing! _

_Thanks for reading. Please leave any thoughts or questions in a review. _


	10. Chapter 10

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**CHAPTER III**

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**Part I**

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The somewhat fierce rocking of the boat bobbing on the waves could've been enough to lull the boy to sleep had he not been in such an uncomfortable position and if it weren't for the cloying bile he could legitimately feel slithering up his throat. With his legs curled up to his chest as he sat on a rather hard sofa that offered no reprieve for his already aching rear, which had endured over eight hours in the passenger seat of his mother's car, he clutched the fluffy white bear plush seated in his lap as though it were a lifeline, his two wide eyes staring from behind a pair of thick spectacles at the plethora of people milling back and forth. Every couple of seconds, the world dipped, a little more violently than before, and his stomach tilted sharply, adding yet another worry to the rapidly growing list. He kneaded his fingers through the downy fur of his favourite stuffed toy, nervousness making him both clumsy and terribly conscious of how susceptible he looked. He never thought he'd be _this _anxious alone on the ferry as he'd said his final farewells to his mum, though half of his distress could've been from how the boat dunked and tipped, its speed gradually increasing with every minute that ticked by.

Matthew had never been on a boat before and, if there was one thing he was sure of from the experience of the ground literally _moving _beneath his feet, he didn't want to travel in such a fashion ever again. His brain was spinning, the front of his forehead pulsating madly as he forced another mouthful of burning bile back down his throat. He could feel the nausea churning in his stomach, producing the most sickening sensation that he'd ever felt before. Nobody had spared him a second glance previously– after all, he looked like just another teenager crossing _la Manche _to Dover for whatever reason – but he was beginning to feel the concerned stares of both the English and French travellers scorching his skin. It was uncomfortable, and Matthew raised his head uncertainly from its position between his knees, only to meet the gazes of two young women, staring hawk-eyed at his pale skin and the sickly glimmer behind his irises.

If he hadn't felt sick before, he sure felt sick now. He had never enjoyed being the centre of attention. That was Alfred's job. Without a second thought, Matthew rose to his feet, albeit shakily, stumbling sideways at another ferocious lurch from the water vessel, and dashed forwards, stopping only to grab his luggage, including the worn-out case that held his mother's laptop that she'd given to him in order to aid him with his revision, and read the numerous signs pointing in all directions. The words span, jumbling themselves around his head, and he found himself thinking if that was how his twin often saw letters, before he was running towards the front deck, desperate to reach fresh air and freedom before his stomach squeezed out everything he'd eaten for breakfast and lunch. He was lucky, as his escape route wasn't barred by any passengers idling around, and he made it to the glass doors without retching or throwing up in the process of his mad scramble. Forcing one of them open, he dragged himself and his bags through and out onto the deck.

The wafts of clean, open air were a godsend, and Matthew found himself gulping them down ravenously, regardless if anybody thought he was crazy or not. It wasn't as though anyone actually noticed him anyway. They were all too busy, caught up in their own conversations as they leaned over the railings and admired the view of the vast expanse of saltwater stretched out to either side of them. The shy boy had to admit, it was a beautiful view; miles of cerulean blue, deep and seemingly bottomless, rolling and curling over itself in a picturesque ocean display. As he stared, caught up in the endless view, not only did his previous feelings of intense nausea start to subside, cleansed by the unpolluted sea air, something started to rise out of the horizon. Whatever it was, it was barely noticeable, but the more he looked, the more he realized that they were nearing the island of Great Britain.

Matthew knew that when they docked at Dover, he would encounter Alfred again after a month of separation. In the beginning, it had been lonely since, when they'd lived back in New York City, they'd hardly ever done anything without each other. They were twins, after all. The only exception had been their birthdays. Their mother's labour had been difficult, starting late in the evening and lasting through the night. Since Alfred had been turned the wrong way in the womb, meaning he was going to 'come out' legs first, he was born via caesarean, whereas Matthew's delivery was as natural as birthing can get. Due to the complications, the elder of the duo had been born at around half past eleven on 1st July, while the younger followed much later on the 2nd.

Parties and celebrations had always been an awkward affair. It had just been too expensive and difficult if the birthday festivities were one after the other, meaning that Alfred's had been shifted to the 4th – surprisingly, American Independence Day. However, when Matthew looked back on their past, he just saw that it was a cheap consolation, even if his twin had been elated to see the brilliant streaks of red, white and blue dappling the sky at night. When his own birthday had been a wonderful event, complete with cake and gatherings of close friends and neighbours, Alfred's only ever present from their parents had been the opportunity to sit on the roof and watch the Independence fireworks. He'd never complained about it though, despite having never had a _proper _party. The New York celebrations always were a spectacular sight to behold.

Matthew sighed, leaving his duffle bag to lean against his leg as he stared wistfully over the railing. He was exhausted having been awake since about three o'clock in the morning to depart from Bordeaux. The French countryside had been immeasurable, stretching in every direction as he'd rested his head against the seatbelt and gazed dreamily at the rolling fields of midnight grass, brushing the darkened sky as they zoomed past. The road had been pretty much empty – who in their right mind would be travelling at such ungainly hours? – an endless path of tarmac winding towards the ocean that would carry him far away from his grandparents.

They were generally nice people, with pointed noses and large, glowing eyes. His grandmother had been young looking and somewhat attractive, her sweeping side fringe hiding most of her forehead and grazing her left eyelid, yet scrutiny had proven that her lack of wrinkles and thick, black lashes were caused by luxurious and lavish cosmetic products that Matthew had found sitting on her chest of drawers. Either way, he knew where he and Alfred had inherited their eye shapes from. Though the colours were slightly different, probably thanks to their father's gene, the woman whom he'd learned to call "_grand-mère_" over the course of the last month definitely harboured a pair of the same close-set eyes that sat upon Matthew's face, as well as a somewhat slim nose that slanted at an almost perfect angle before tapering to a blunt point.

It would have been a dirty lie to say that he hadn't been reluctant to leave them and their marvellous cooking behind, yet something more important had been beckoning him; the prospect of a new school and curriculum, and his twin brother whom he had missed and still missed even now, despite knowing that he would meet him in just less than an hour. Why had Alfred moved to England when he'd gone to France? It was just plain stupid. Were their parents intentionally trying to split them up and pry them apart? Why would they do such a thing? Matthew had been so utterly devastated when he'd heard the news; it had been enough for him to break down in tears in spite of himself. The long weeks spent lounging around his adopted bedroom had been enough to kill him. Truthfully, he was glad for the segregation from his family. His stifling, over-loving, smothering family, who were so _proud_, so _overcome _by all of his achievements and so _satisfied _that he was better than his good-for-nothing, lazy, inconsiderate and wayward brother. Their words, not his.

His grandparents hadn't even _met _Alfred and they had already started to form their own opinion of him based on Mother's comments. Without going into detail, they certainly didn't think very much of him. Yes, the younger twin was dyslexic and often failed miserably at tests, but that didn't mean he didn't try hard and it definitely wasn't an open invitation for his family – his own flesh and blood! – to prejudge and underestimate him. He was intelligent and creative, boisterous, friendly and hyperactive with a love for everything and everyone. He had always been unique; a peacemaker, a rebel, an opportunist, a daredevil, an optimist, a leader. Why did the fact that he had a slight reading impairment give people the right to make him feel inferior?

It was only when Matthew's grasp on his beloved stuffed toy began to slip did he jolt up, realizing that he'd been falling asleep as he'd daydreamed. The bear, which he'd named Kuma, was dangling precariously over the edge of the boat, staring at the snapping white spray below, and he snatched it back, holding it to his chest as his nostrils flared. The sea would not claim his dear comfort toy. Ever since he'd been little, Kuma had acted as a safety blanket, a warm promise of security whenever he'd been scared. More than once he'd been called out for dragging him around school, but Alfred had been sure to set the provokers right, whether by a few mollifying words or a sucker punch to the jaw. It was only natural for Matthew to miss him, right?

He stared out across the ocean to the skyline, towards the large white structures slowly rising up over the edge of the water. Impossibly pale, the cliffs climbed higher and higher into the sky, bleached white against the background of cerulean blue. The closer the ship sailed towards the gargantuan landmass waiting at the other side of _la Manche, _the more blanched limestone made its presence known. It was monstrous, a beast forged from dazzling white rock, perfectly pearly and chalklike, reached forwards to swallow the very sea and everything in it, including the bobbing boat. Matthew stared uneasily at the new land, barely noticing the sudden surge of people rushing out to marvel at the natural spectacle. Tourists crowded on the front deck, whipping cameras from their pockets to capture the sight forever in a state of perpetual immobility. _The Cliffs of Dover, hm…_

Matthew was beginning to feel uneasy again, pressed against the railing by the gaggle of visitors who were anxious to set eyes of the pale stone. It wasn't because he was nauseous though. He was fairly sure that all of his previous sensations and anxieties had been quelled by his undisturbed thought track and the salty sea air. But now, he was starting to get tired of that too. Muttering an excess of "excuse me" and "_pardon_", he grabbed the remainder of his luggage and trundled back towards the double doors that would grant him access to the inner decks. It was a shame really. He'd wanted to see the famed cliffs yet his reclusiveness and personal space issues inhibited him from doing so without feeling violated.

Having never been the type who indulged himself in physical activities, he found himself struggling with the amount of baggage he had to lug around. Not only was Kuma still nestled underneath his arm, but he had slung his duffle bag over his shoulder and was dragging his suitcase along the floor with all of the strength he could muster. For a few seconds he was immensely glad that it had wheels, however he started to curse that logic when the boat swerved suddenly beneath his feet, and said case was slowly starting to pull him sideways. In an effort to stay on his feet, Matthew leant the other way, squirming constantly to keep his feet rooted in place. However, fortune was not on his side at all that day, for the floor lurched again, sending him reeling to left, stumbling head over heels until he was positive that he would smash through the glass window that overlooked the ocean and tumble into the murky water below.

His headlong fall was broken by something rather hard. Whatever it was, it was also quite smooth, for Matthew found his hands pressed against some sort of cotton material, dyed a rich shade of violet. In the midst of his fall, he must've misplaced his glasses since all he could piece together from the mess in front of his eyes was a distorted assortment of drifting lights, either in clusters or spread out from each other. His world was blurred momentarily, as he heaved himself backwards and started to fumble around on what he assumed was the floor, his fingers running along laminated wooden boards as he tried to search for something to say. He hadn't run into a _person _had he? But it would look incredibly odd if he apologised to an inanimate object, wouldn't it?

Torn between what he should and shouldn't do, Matthew barely registered the fact that something was being pressed into the palm of his hands. He paused, the hairs on the nape of his neck suddenly sticking on end as he ran his thumb along the wiry metal clutched in his fingers, trying to determine what exactly it was. The look on his face must've echoed how lost and confused he was, for the being who had pushed the mystery item into his hand spoke, his deep voice laced with opulent monotones.

"_Excusez-moi? _Excuse me, are these your glasses?"

Matthew immediately realised that this person was French, obviously because they had just spoken in France's native tongue to him. It appeased him slightly knowing that this wasn't a foreigner whose language he didn't know, but he was still on guard, knowing that whoever it was, they sounded like a very intimidating male. Murmuring a quiet "_merci, monsieur"_,he shoved his glasses up to his face, squinting as he rested them upon the bridge of his nose and tried to grow accustomed to his surroundings. It seemed that he had toppled over completely, bowling something – wait, no, some_one _– over in the process. His suitcase lay discarded, wavering on its side, with the laptop case perched on top, as his duffle bag flopped unceremoniously on the floor beside it, looking somewhat deflated. Two other, unidentified, bags lay beside his own; one was hard and rectangular, whilst the other was a simple wheeled case.

As his eyes flicked left and right, searching for anything that would explain his position and the extra baggage, they came to rest on his helper. A young man, it seemed, with rivulets of pale fawn hair trailing over his scalp that looked as though it had been properly groomed with many professional products from its slightly chromatic sheen. Due to its length, he had tied it back in a loose ponytail that hung on the nape of his neck, causing his appearance to be oddly reminiscent of some sort of tree-hugging hippie. All he needed was a peace sign imprinted somewhere on his outfit. Yet, somehow the vibes that were created from both his stylish attire and unconsciously suave gaze, that assumption seemed unlikely.

He was kneeling down, his back hunched slightly as he leaned over into Matthew's personal space, a few flecks of dark facial stubble that dotted his chin glittering slightly from the sunlight slanting in from the window nearby. One hand tentatively touched the floor, helping to steady his precarious position, whilst the other was stretched out in a way that would've been awkward if it hadn't been offering Matthew his glasses earlier. The expression on his face was a mixture of concern and confusion, as though he didn't quite understand exactly what had happened to the person in front of him, and he appeared to be chewing his lower lip slightly, but the action was so miniscule that it was barely noticeable. However, Matthew did notice it because…oh yeah, this guy was literally one centimetre from his face.

Almost immediately, he scuttled backwards, propelling himself via his hands, a long string of jumbled apologies tumbled forth from his half open mouth as he realised that he had just bumped into this person. How he knew this was fairly easy; the purple "thing" that he had become acquainted with whilst he'd been splayed out on the floor previously was the man's waistcoat, wrapped snuggly around his torso and contrasting greatly with the bleached white shirt he was wearing underneath.

"_Je suis désolé! _I am sorry!" Matthew squeaked loudly, almost forgetting to speak in French. "Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! I just started to fall and – I am really, really, _really _sorry!"

The mysterious man simply waved his hand dismissively, halting the teen in his rushed monologue instantly.

"_Ce n'est pas grave. _It's okay," he said simply. "Are you alright? Where are your parents?"

_My parents? Why would he want to know where my parents are? _Matthew stared at him, dumbfounded, before nodding hastily to confirm his first question. It took him a couple of moments to understand the stranger obviously mistook him for being some years younger than he actually was, like most other people, and he quickly recovered from his temporary state of misperception. Yes, he was often assumed to be a younger teenager thanks to the combination of his hairstyle and large, orb glasses. It probably didn't help matters that he'd been clutching a large, fluffy polar bear toy too; Kuma was lying on the ground beside his hand luggage with an aura of dejection encircling him.

"Uh…" Matthew started. "I – er, I am travelling alone." He was reluctant to admit that snippet of information to the man, mainly because he was unsure of his age. Looking closer, he didn't look _too _old, but Matthew was still uneasy in his presence.  
"I'm meeting my brother in Dover," he added quickly, which was the complete truth. Alfred should have caught a train from Crewkerne and was due to arrive at the port town at around four o'clock, ready to meet Matthew at Dover Priory train station, which was just a half hour walk from the docks.

The man's expression relaxed, silently voicing his relief, which only befuddled Matthew even more.

"Ah, okay."

It was then that he moved, straightening his legs so that he stood to his full height, towering high above the teen still sat on the ground, and reached forward to offer him a hand in getting to his feet. Matthew hesitated, unwilling to outstretch his own arm and accept the stranger's help. Yet, he complied anyway, knowing that it would be rude to refuse, and was pulled upwards where he found that he stood just a handful of inches shorter than his "saviour." The man seemed deterred by his height, and frowned, but otherwise remained impassive.

"Thank you," Matthew murmured, before starting to fiddle absently with his fingers. He wasn't a person of many words.

"It's fine," came the reply. In order to either occupy himself or fill in the awkward standstill in motion, the man began to bustle around, his shoes clicking against the laminate flooring, fetching Matthew's scattered luggage for him by hauling the suitcase into an upright position. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Kuma collapsed upon the ground, but didn't mention anything.  
"You – ah…seem a little….well, _young _to be travelling alone," he commented as he clasped the string of the duffle bag and passed it into the boy's waiting arms.

Once again, Matthew paused, though at first it was to try and piece together exactly what he had said. He wasn't completely fluent in French yet, though he was already past the halfway mark. Once he'd sussed out what the Frenchman had said, he dithered. He didn't particularly want this man to know how old he was exactly, so he continued cautiously, checking each and every word before he eventually formed a sentence.

"Well," he started slowly. "I am going to attend a college." Now that wasn't _entirely _a lie. After all, the boarding school _was _called Hetalia Cross College. Now Matthew was completely clueless to the French education system, hence why he just plucked a random word from the corner of his mind. Hopefully, their curriculum was somewhat similar to America's and he could just pass off acting older than he actually was in order to avoid any unnecessary attention. Damn, why did he have to be so paranoid?

"_Collège_?" Flicking a stray strand of wavy hair behind his ear, the stranger just nodded absently, almost as if he were in quiet agreement with Matthew's explanation. "You must be younger than I thought!"

_Oh no, no, no! _Why couldn't he just have said that he was attending a boarding school? Why couldn't he have just told the truth? Matthew was so busy mentally scolding himself that he almost forgot to respond to the Frenchman's next question. Said man had just bent over and retrieved Kuma from his place on the ground and was currently thrusting him forward, his face contorted into an expression that would have accented his inquiry had Matthew actually heard it.

"Does this belong to you?" he repeated. Immediately, Matthew flushed, embarrassed at having such a childish item exposed to the public. Nonetheless, he didn't want to see Kuma left anywhere, or worse – thrown in the bin, so he just mumbled "_oui_" and accepted him with an agitated scowl. Almost instantaneously, he felt a million times better with the soft down between his fingers, comforting and soothing his anxieties.

"Er, thank you…again…"

A long silence stretched between them. It wasn't awkward, just unbearably empty, aching to be filled by words that were eventually presented.

"My name is Francis, by the way."

"Oh, uhm…Matthew….I am Matthew…"

The now-named Francis glanced out of the window to their right, his gaze lingering on the roaring white cliffs, now towering high in every direction, before he checked the silver watch strapped around his wrist.

"I think we are going to be docking soon," he commented before looking upwards towards Matthew. "Would you like to join my sisters and me to get off? Where are you bound?"

The boy took a few moments to ingest this information, and another few to come to a decision. It reassured him slightly to know that this stranger – wait, _Francis _– had sisters at least (the thought of brothers terrified him), yet he still felt a nervous buzz in his presence. He wondered why this person whom he had just met would be interested in conversing with him further, especially as he had just knocked him over. Maybe he could join them for the offloading of the ferry and then make a quick escape to the train station. Somehow he doubted that their journey would take them to the same region as him. Partially satisfied with his conclusion, he nodded shyly, drawing his foot along the ground and trying to bury his cheeks into Kuma's fluffy fur. Francis just responded with a fluid gesture and started to stroll towards the stairs that headed down to the pedestrians' exit.

From what Matthew could see, there were only a handful of people congregated there. Most of the passengers were still on the outer decks, admiring the view, or they had brought their own vehicles with them and they had no need to take the way out that was specifically for people without cars or buses for transportation.

"If you don't mind me asking," Francis began as they walked, Matthew trying to look as though he wasn't struggling with the amount of baggage he was carrying; once again, his duffle bag was slung over his shoulder as he dragged his suitcase along. This time, he had decided to crumple Kuma away so that he wouldn't be seen in his arms. He couldn't risk further humiliation. "You have a strange accent. Are you not from France?"

That was a surprise, he had to admit. Of course, when he'd learned French in school, he hadn't been taught the proper dialect so it was only natural for him to have an accent, but he hadn't really expected anyone to notice it.

"Ah, no," he started to explain. After deducing that it was safe to mention his birthplace, he continued. "Actually, I am from America."

This time it was Francis' turn to look shocked. He appeared to struggle to keep his mouth closed as his jaw hung open, exposing the inside of his mouth. "America!? _Mon dieu! _My God! What are you doing here then, in England? Surely, you are not here just for _collège_? And you are so young too!"

Matthew could barely supress the amusement upon his face, though secretly he was a mess inside. Being quite a socially awkward person, he didn't want to admit that he might've made a mistake by using the word _collège_. His self-proclaimed companion was making quite a fuss about his alleged age.  
"Well, I moved to France just a month ago with my mother," he explained. Francis seemed satisfied with the answer for a few seconds. That is, until something must've caused him to think otherwise, as he narrowed his eyes.

"But, didn't you say you were meeting your brother in Dover? Did you not move together?"

"Um…it's, er…" He faltered, unsure of what to say. It felt like a betrayal to reveal his parents' divorce and financial struggles. "It's…complicated…"

Francis seemed to understand, for he just waved his hand, as though he was pushing the matter away into the atmosphere. "Don't worry," he pacified. "You do not have to explain." Matthew nodded nervously, before scoping the area again. There were very few people standing around the exit. The boat was starting to slow, the odd lurch throwing the passengers off balance momentarily before they repositioned themselves, signalling that it was probably rolling into the docks at that precise moment. Francis was checking his watch again, only glancing up for his eyes to scan the corridor as though he was searching for somebody.  
"They said they would meet me here…" he mused.

"_Francis!_"

The voice was easily distinguishable as a woman's, though it sounded as though the bearer had a bad cold or, at least, a blocked nose. Even before he turned around to look at her, Matthew was fairly certain that she was furious, for whatever reason. Enough so to roar across the deck of the ship anyway. The second he'd flicked his hair out of the way and adjusted his deportment to the point that he could peer over his shoulder at the girl whom had yelled out his temporary companion's name, he was met with a pair of misted olive eyes, both a deep shade of ruddy green that wasn't unlike the grime found in a swamp or underneath the schlock of a rainforest floor. Not that they were unattractive…just…_dull_.

Whoever she was, she was quite pretty, with a bundle of caramel locks tumbling down in a loose braid over her shoulder, the fringe of which was pinned back by two slim hairpins. She would've probably been more attractive if it weren't for the bookish spectacles, red rimmed, perched on the bridge of her nose that did not compliment her complexion or facial structure much, and the deep-set scowl that made up her mouth. Her long skirt billowed out behind her as she walked, an aura of purpose framing her clacking footsteps, and when she spoke again, all of her words were a fast garble of French and her voice punched the air.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, her haughty question directed towards Francis. "Michelle and I looked _everywhere _for you! You said you would meet us here half an hour ago!"

Francis could only hold up his hands in mock despair. "I am sorry, Lucille. I must have lost track of time." She did not seem to be mollified by this.

"We have been taking our luggage around with us. This isn't funny!"

"Yes, I am sor–"

"_And _we have to walk to the train station too! You are carrying my bag." Without another word, she unstrapped a leather satchel from her shoulder and dumped it on Francis instead. It was only when she glanced backwards over her shoulder, as though she were awaiting the arrival of somebody else, did she finally notice Matthew's presence. Throughout the entire exchange, he had been standing stock still, regretting the decision of putting Kuma in his backpack. At first, she only stared at him, wondering why he was in such close proximity to them when he had the whole ship to wander around. However, once she had just made the decision to speak up and ask of his business, another girl joined them.

Considerably shorter than the other two and clad in much more vibrant colours, which contrasted significantly with her light mocha skin tone, she looked more than a little bit out of place as she lugged what must've been her own baggage with her. Matthew was doubtful that she belonged to the label of "Francis' sisters", mainly because she hardly looked anything like him, what with her dark hair, warm copper irises and broad, rounded nose, yet recognition flashed upon the Frenchman's face once he laid eyes on her, and he smiled widely. She seemed diffident to return it.

"Francis," she began, frowning, her voice harbouring an agitated edge. "Where _were_ you?"

"Ah, Michelle!" came his response. "I just got caught up with something, that's all. Have you seen the shops?"

"Yes, too many times, thanks to you. You just said you were going to the cafeteria!"

"I know, but something came up –"

"Who is this?" Lucille's voice silenced both of them, and Matthew realized that, as he'd been trying to follow their conversation that she'd been scrutinizing him with a hostile glare for the last two minutes. Once he hadn't departed from the scene, she'd guessed that he had something to do with her brother, hence why she quipped in with her own question, mostly directed towards Francis. His gaze lit up like Christmas lights once he glanced back at Matthew, who just tightened his grip on the strap of his bag, feeling uneasy under the inspection of so many people. Check that: three people.

"Matthew!" he chirped. "I almost forgot you were there! Why didn't you say something?"

"I –"

"Lucille, Michelle," Francis interrupted, addressing each of his sisters respectively. "This is Matthew. He is attending _collège _in England."

"_Collège?_" the smaller of the two girl asked, her brows furrowed. "I thought they had a different education system in England?"

"Oh yes," her brother pondered. "So, he will be going to a high school, as they call it."

"Anyway, my name is Michelle," she purred, her voice smooth as she smiled softly, her cinnamon eyes glittering. The other was a little less welcoming.

"I am Lucille."

"Yes, Matthew," Francis started to elaborate, addressing the misplaced boy with an unexplained warmth in his tone. "These are my two younger sisters."

"It is good to meet you." Before he had time to take a breath, Francis was talking to his siblings again, explaining that he was from America, hence why he "spoke in a strange way." He was not offended by his words, not at all, but he did find himself shuffling his feet and wishing that he could just get off and start walking to the station already so that he could meet up with his brother. He would feel a lot better after seeing him again.

"So, Matthew," Michelle started, pushing past Lucille to speak to him more freely. "I was in _collège _too. We might be the same age. I am going into_ quatrième – _ah, wait…er, I think it is Year Nine in England." She looked expectantly back at him, as if hoping that he would say how old he was. Considering Matthew had no knowledge of the French or British education system, other than the fact he was going into his first year of Sixth Form, he was at a complete loss on what he should say, and just stuttered hopelessly for a few moments, praying that something would distract them momentarily. Sure enough, his wishes were heard far above, for an announcement boomed over the loud speakers, first in English, then in French, and the gates by the stairs swung open, motioning that the boat had slid safely into the docks and that it was time to disembark.

"We are here!" Francis yelled, ushering the trio through the narrow opening where they began to descend the winding steps. All that could be heard for a long time was the clunk of somebody's high heels upon the plastic and the distant roar of the engines, as well as the subdued chatter of the other passengers behind them, no doubt heading towards the steps that would lead them towards the lower car park. Luckily, there was no unnecessary pushing nor were there any accidents on the way downwards, so Matthew managed to emerge onto the tarmac unharmed. The glaring sunshine brushed against his face, and he could feel its warmth as he followed the metal signs towards the pedestrian exit.

It hadn't quite struck him yet that these steps, those slow, naturally fluid motions that his legs were making, his jeans brushing against each other as he moved one leg forward after the other again and again, were the first ever steps that he was taking in England. The air he breathed, smelling of an odd concoction of sea salt, petrol fumes and wet cement, that he forced through his nose and into his lungs, belong solely to the island nation that was Britain. Every sight, every sound was a novelty, something he had never seen before. Like the first time he had arrived in France, he felt small and lost, as though one mistake would end his life right there and then. He was alone, standing by the ocean and listening to the sea foam lap against the tarmac. Ships sailed past, oblivious to his turmoil. Seagulls screamed above, circling the cliffs and dive bombing both residents and tourists alike.

He halted in his tracks. Perhaps Matthew's existence was lonesome. He was just a silhouette, an unwelcome figure in a land where he didn't belong. But where did he belong? Was his true calling in the enclosed skyscraper jungle of New York City or the humble town of Bordeaux? Or did he not belong anywhere anymore? Was he a nomad, forced to roam the globe in search of a place to call his own? It was when he stood there, rooted to the spot as he stared straight ahead, his eyes blind to his surroundings, that he felt as lonely as he'd been at least ten years ago when he'd lost sight of Alfred on the playground. Back then, he'd curled up in a ball and started to cry, terrified at the prospect of losing his twin forever. And back then, he'd come bursting out of oblivion, grinning like an idiot as he held a new toy to play with. But this time, Alfred was nowhere to be seen, and Matthew had learnt by now that he would have to fend for himself rather than rely on his twin all of the time.

So he walked again, his eyes clearing and catching sight of a familiar face. He continued towards it, despite his previous precautions and almost – _almost _– smiled when he was recognised.

"Hey, Matthew!" Francis called, still speaking in French. "I thought you left."

"No, I was just lost," he replied truthfully.

"We should probably get out of here," Lucille suggested curtly, already tugging her suitcase towards the pavement that would probably lead them towards the port town.

"I though you said you were meeting your brother…?" Francis shot him a quizzical look and, for once, Matthew didn't hesitate to answer.

"I am meeting him at the Dover Priory Station."

Michelle noticeably perked up. "The station? We are going there too! We could all walk together!" For the second time that day, Matthew found himself wondering how on Earth she could possibly be related to Francis and Lucille. It was easy to see the resemblance between the latter duo, but she was completely opposite in appearance to both. Nonetheless, he did not mention anything for fear of upsetting her or coming off as rude. He had, after all, only just met these people.

Francis nodded in agreement with the idea, afore lifting all of the luggage he had been saddled with and continuing after Lucille, leaving his other 'sister' to strike up a conversation with their companion. They walked considerably slower than the other two, both unsure of where exactly they should be going. Matthew noted that he was taller than her by quite a few centimetres, but it didn't exactly surprise him. He guessed that she was in her early teens at the most, perhaps around thirteen or fourteen years of age.

"You can speak English, right Matthew?" Michelle asked.

"Yes."

"We started classes when we were younger, but Francis never liked it. He's not very good, probably because he was a lot older when he started learning."

Uncertain of how exactly to respond to the piece of unnecessary information, he just nodded lazily, not entirely paying attention to what the girl said until her tone changed and she brought up the subject of school again.

"You didn't say how old you were," she pressed, and again, he felt an odd sense in the pit of his stomach. He didn't want to lie about his age, he really didn't, especially because he was a terrible liar. If he told Michelle anything other than the truth, she would be sure to pick up on it and quote him later. He had already made a fool himself with the whole _collège _mix-up – he could only guess that it was a type of middle school, or perhaps elementary. He wasn't keen on the idea of admitting that he'd been wrong, but there wasn't any other way of tackling it. Surely, they couldn't blame him for not knowing much, if anything, about the British curriculum?

"Well…" Matthew began, spurred on by the curious gleam in Michelle's eyes. "I am supposed to be going into a 'Sixth Form.'"

She frowned. "Sixth Form? Like Francis? I thought you said you were in high school?" Oh God, all of the information processed was starting to give him a headache. He could hardly keep up with what she was saying, which didn't help matters.

"Are they not the same…thing…?" He trailed off, furrowing his brows. If Francis was an alleged 'Sixth Former', then he was nowhere near to how old Matthew's earlier assumptions had guessed.

"I'm not actually sure," Michelle admitted, shrugging. "The English have an odd way of doing things. They are weird people. So, does that mean you are the same age as Francis?"

He wasn't entirely sure why, but he felt a lot better speaking to a girl whom he knew was younger than him. It made him feel more at ease with what he was saying. No-one could blame him really; Francis had, at first, looked like a creepy, unkempt thirty-year-old thanks to his unshaved stubble and thick tresses. He even dared to use the word paedophile in the recesses of his brain.

"How…how old is Francis?"

"Seventeen." _Holy – ! _Well, that shocked him, and that much must've been evident on his face from the amused expression Michelle was wearing. She covered her mouth with her free hand to mask the smile that had started to spread, her lashes fluttering in such a manner that it would've been a seductive gesture had her face not been so babyish.

"I am sorry," Matthew apologised hurriedly. "I thought –"

"Don't worry, don't worry. He gets that a lot. So, are you seventeen as well?"

"No, I turned sixteen in July." She mulled this over for a while, occasionally pulling a face until her expression soured and stayed that way for a considerable amount of time.

"That doesn't make sense. That means you are a year younger than him, yet you are still in Sixth Form?"

Matthew shrugged. "That's what I was told."

"The English are strange. You don't look sixteen at all. I thought you were younger."

"I get that a lot." At that, Michelle laughed, her lips curving into a childish smile as a brook of giggles streaming from her mouth. Her laugh did not suit her since it didn't flow well. Matthew had imagined that it would mimic the sound of ringing bells, but it was broken and disjointed, a sporadic hiccup worming its way in between each breath. The laughter was not beautiful, but it certainly was enough to make him cough to try and disguise his own chuckles.

"Hey, you two!" Francis called over his shoulder, slowing his pace so that he detached himself from Lucille's side and ended up walking just in front of them. "Stop flirting." At once, Matthew's cheeks flushed a bright shade of crimson and his façade coughs changed to semi-violent hacking. _Flirting! _That had been the last thing on his mind whilst talking to the young girl. Funnily enough, Francis too began to chortle, his eyes flashing mischievously. "You look quite cute when you blush, Matthew."

Whereas his choking fit had started to subside, after the Frenchman's comment, he was snorting again, rubbing his face vigorously with the sleeves of his jumper, as if he was trying to manually wipe away the blush. Had Francis just 'hit-on' him? Seriously? A guy? Hitting on _him_? Not that he was against the thought of men being together – his twin _was _gay – but it just caught him off guard. Was that a hint that Francis swung that way too? An odd revelation. And so open! It was almost as if he didn't care at all if anybody knew! Then again, Matthew could've been jumping to conclusions. Perhaps it had just been an innocent jibe, meant to ruffle his feathers. Perhaps it hadn't _meant _anything at all.

In the end, they strolled at a leisurely pace all of the way to the train station. Matthew had often liked to walk when he'd lived back in the streetlights of New York. There was always somewhere to go in the city, somewhere that he could wander to, away from his everyday life. Not that he ever had any problems. It was more of the problems that were offloaded onto him, such as Alfred's sexuality. He had been the first to know for obvious reasons and the first to understand exactly what his brother was going through, though not entirely. Walking had been a good reliever, a good thinking tool that would set his mind at ease. It was something he felt he could do to conjure up some answers for the difficult questions that faced him back at home e.g "_Why me, Mattie? Why do I have to be different?" _

Nearly every day, rain or shine, hot or cold, he would leave the apartment to walk through the city – never really going anywhere, but simply going wherever his legs happened to take him. New York was an inexhaustible space, a labyrinth of endless steps, and no matter how far he walked, no how well he came to know its neighbourhoods and streets, it always left him with the feeling of being lost. Lost, not only in the city, but within himself as well. Each time he took a walk, he felt as though he were leaving himself behind, and by giving himself up to the movement of the streets, by reducing himself to a seeing eye, he was able to escape the obligation to think, and this, more than anything else, brought him a measure of peace, a salutary emptiness within.

The world was outside of him, around him, before him, and the speed with which it kept changing made it impossible for him to dwell on any one thing for very long. Motion was of the essence, the act of putting one foot in front of the other and allowing himself to follow the drift of his own body. By wandering aimlessly, all places became equal and it no longer mattered where he was. On his best walks, he was able to feel that he was nowhere. And this, finally, was all he ever asked of things: to be nowhere. New York was the nowhere he had built around himself, yet he realised he had no intention of ever going there again. Because nowhere was a place that Matthew found that he didn't belong anymore. Now, he belonged somewhere, and that somewhere happened to be waiting for him. Whether it were to be his new dorm room in Britain, or an old village in France, or with a particular person, somewhere was where he would always find a place to be.

Why did he think so much? Why did he let his mind wander like that? It only ever made him feel nostalgic and sometimes despondent. After a half hour of walking and chatter, that somehow drifted into English after Michelle and Lucille both agreed that it would better to practice their language skills, despite Francis calling it an "unsophisticated and blasé excuse for a tongue", the station was finally in their sights. Somewhere in the midst of their conversation, Francis had come to understand that Matthew was not, as he'd originally thought, an overgrown thirteen-year-old boy, but in actual fact an AS-level student with aspirations to become a doctor. He had settled considerably from when he'd first learned Francis' name and accepted the fact that they were more than acquaintances now, and was starting to mentally prepare for their farewells, since he had a feeling that they would be catching a train that would take them to this far-off boarding school that they had mentioned.

He was also starting to understand that Alfred was probably close-by too, if he wasn't late. Matthew would've put that past him. He had never been an organised person, nor was he skilled at time management or reading anything other than a digital clock. Nonetheless, he found himself itching to see him again, though not much time had passed since their good-bye in the terminal at the JFK airport. He'd probably have to get used to some separation from his twin whilst he was at Hetalia Cross College, just to avoid any unneeded stress in later lifetime.

"What time is our train, Lucille?" Francis asked as she started to rummage through her reclaimed satchel, probably searching for documents. In spite of Michelle's earlier words about his English, he actually spoke quite well, though he made no efforts to try and lift his heavy accent, which was probably why so many people had thought he was speaking gibberish when he'd asked for directions.

"It's going to arrive in about fifteen minutes," she said, pulled out three pieces of paper. Matthew was instantly reminded of his own documents, and slipped off his duffle bag to prod around for them before Alfred arrived. The station wasn't too big, but there was a surge of people flooding through the doors, no doubt from the ferry that had just docked. Most squeezed into the available seats, checking and rechecking their luggage over and over again whilst others fussed around by parking metres to check how many days their stay would be.

"What time were you supposed to meet your brother?" The sudden question surprised Matthew as he was so busy try to sort out his bags, and he had to ask for it to be repeated. Francis obliged patiently.

"Oh, he should already be here. I just can't see–"

"_MATTIE!_"

People could never seem to get enough of interrupting him that day, he thought, as he inwardly brightened at the sound of that oh-so familiar voice screeching his name. Out of nowhere, a bright streak of brown barrelled into him, effectively knocking him off of his feet and punching the breath from his lungs. The one downside of having a brother that played football: he was damn good at tackling, and it seriously hurt. Over the sound of his ribs gradually being crushed, Matthew could hear the endless babbling of his overenthusiastic twin and the mirth dripping from every syllable as he explained how kind his grandparents were, and how they'd given him so many gifts before he'd gotten on the train at Crewkerne, including a super old leather jacket that one of their ancestors had worn during World War Two and a brand new laptop so that he could study, and how he had spent most of his holiday staring at the cows in the field by his bedroom window…

Matthew laughed, chortles trickling through his lips as he tried fruitlessly to pry his twin's arms off of his waist.  
"It's good to see you too, Al."

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

_**A/N:**_

_Bad ending is bad._

_I finished this part just in time since I'm leaving for Scotland tomorrow morning. I don't like to set myself deadlines because it just stresses me out, but considering I'll be gone for about two weeks, this story would've probably plummeted deeper in the abyss of long-forgotten USUK fanfictions._

_I found out that you can personalise the cover image in the 'Image Manager', so I played around with that a little bit. I do not own the picture used – it was drawn by hakuku on DeviantArt. I just thought it was adorable and fitted in quite well with some of the later story line. _

_There are a lot of things to explain in this part, mainly regarding the French education system. Since I am not French, nor do I live in France, I have absolutely no idea what their schools are like, so feel free to correct me if I'm wrong here._

_Instead of counting how many years they have been in school, I believe the French count down to when they are going to leave. So, Michelle, who stated that she was in 'quatrième' was basically saying that she had four years left of school. 'Quatrième' is the equivalent of Year 9 in Britain and Grade 8 in America/Canada. _

_Matthew did use the wrong word when he was trying to explain that he was going to, what he thought was, a college. Instead of saying 'université', which is the French word for university, he said 'collège', which the equivalent of middle school in America/Canada (plus one more year) and Key Stage 3 in Britain (once again, plus one more year). 'Collège' is a school for children aged 11-15. _

_I think that in America/Canada, college is the same as university, right? So, whereas Matthew thought by saying that he went to college, he would seem older than he really was and deter any unwanted attention from Francis (yes, he did assume that he was some sort of paedophile. That doesn't mean that I think France is a paedophile though. Matthew's just paranoid.) _

_It all seems very confusing. Gosh, I love making things difficult.  
As for their ages:_

_Francis is seventeen (as stated) and would've been going into 'terminale', which is the last year of school in France. However, since he's moving to England, though he is one year older than Matthew, he will probably be taking a course for his AS-levels, just like him, because they wouldn't accept that he had already sat some exams. Basically, he's one year behind where he should be, as are all of the other older students who will be introduced later e.g China, Spain, Prussia etc._

_Lucille is fifteen and would've been in 'seconde' in France, but is instead going into Year 11 (though she might actually be taking Year 10 courses to prepare for her GCSE exams). Year 11 is the same as Grade 10. _

_Michelle is thirteen and starting Year 9, like she said. The fact why she looks nothing like Francis or Lucille will be mentioned in later chapter parts. _

_Oh, and for the record, Lucille is Monaco and Michelle is Seychelles. Since they are minor characters, they probably won't be mentioned after they arrive at the boarding school for a long time._

_And, just another quick note: when it comes to the countries' heights, I like the mix them up a little bit. Also, I don't really agree that America and Canada are exactly the same height because they're twins. I know a pair of twins who have three inch difference in height with each other. I always guessed that America would be around 5 ft 10, France around 5 ft 8 and Canada around 5ft 7. I don't support the fact that a country is as tall as the size of his/her land mass. Can you imagine how midget-y everyone would be in comparison to Russia?! Holy cow._

_I'm sorry for the lack of USUK, but at least the story is starting to move forward a little bit now. The next part will feature Arthur again, but I can't decide whether I should introduce Germany and Prussia, Spain and Andorra (and possibly the Canary Islands), Switzerland and Liechtenstein, or Belgium (and maybe Luxembourg). Also, this is the point where you can suggest some pairings for the other characters. As much as I regret this, I don't think I'm going to turn this into a massive gay-fest because that kinda defeats the point of the story. _

_So, I'm open for hetero pairing suggestions. I can make an exception with Francis, though, because he may or may not be gay/bisexual at this point. Oh, and there _might _be nyotalia characters…though I'm sure because I don't particularly like nyotalia and I don't know if I could actually genderbend the Hetalia cast. _

_A big, big thank you to HetaliaHour, Midnight Run in the Rain and Decimus Yna for leaving reviewing, and a special thanks to PurpleLuna98 for just being Prussian. I'm sorry if I can't thank people via personal message because my PMs have been down for some reason, and I don't think that I'll have any internet connection whilst I'm in Scotland. Boo hoo. _

_This is the longest author's note ever. Oh, and thank you to everyone who added this fanfiction to their alerts and favourites lists. I really do appreciate it. _

_See you in two weeks. _


	11. Chapter 11

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Pre-note**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

_I have put up a poll on my profile asking which story you would like for me to publish next. It would mean the world to me if you could go and vote so that I know which story I should start writing. All of the suggested fics contain some USUK and most are M rated. Thank you. _

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Part II**

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

If there was one thing that Arthur hated more than anything else in the entire world, it was public transport. One: it was difficult to get a decent internet connection, if any at all, and when he did, it was often so weak that the web browser he was surfing would either show a message along the lines of "this page is not available" or it would shut down entirely. Two: the _stench_. Why was it that, even when he tried so hard to choose a comfortable place where he was sure that no tramps had sat before him, the familiar smell of shit managed to invade his nostrils and was so damned poignant that he could still _feel _the putrid warmth flooding through his nasal passages even when he tucked his nose into his jumper or breathed into one of his sleeves. And three: people.

There were all sorts of annoying, gross and generally unpleasant people who chose to plonk their arses right next to his, ranging from twats, to wankers, to gits and idiots. In the space of thirty minutes, he'd already been violated by a man who was so unkempt that he could've passed for a tramp (in fact, he probably _had _been a tramp), a woman whose face resembled a clown's from the amount of make-up she'd slathered over her cheeks and a greasy teenager wearing a McDonald's uniform who smelled as though he hadn't bathed in months. How people could carry themselves through public looking like that, he never knew. But now, thankfully, he was alone, sitting silently and enjoying the bliss of solitude. At least buses weren't as bad as the London tube. Of course he loved London and it's bustling streets, but the bloody underground…Arthur shuddered violently just _thinking _about it. Why did people think that, even though a carriage what full to the point that limbs and head were still stuck through the killer doors, there was still room for _just one more_? Were they trying to suffocate everybody with their added body mass, or were they just stupid? Then again, as much as he loathed buses and every other kind of transportation that involved coming into close contact with strangers, he would've much rather sat next to every single twat, wanker, git and idiot in the whole of United Kingdom – scratch that – the _world _rather than have his father drive him all of the way to York.

Again, the connection failed, and Arthur heaved a sigh, snapping his laptop shut and switching to another means of entertainment. He was_ supposed _to be revising the Elizabethan era, since his yob of a brother, Dylan, had hinted at a few of the topics he might be covering in A-level history, but considering the internet was too busy fart-arsing around to co-operate, he instead started to flick through one of his novels, hoping that the negative vibes emanating from both his infuriated facial expression and generally agitated conduct would be enough to repel any unwanted travel buddies. As one could probably tell, Arthur was not in a very good mood. His final farewell to his family had been bitter and awkward, full of empty words, mainly promises that he was sure to break, and not-quite-genuine lamentations.

His mother had kissed him on the forehead, confusing and leaving her middle son gawking at the suddenness of her act, and then proceeded to gush about how much she was going to miss him. Huh, she barely even registered his presence around the house anyway! Arthur doubted that her words had been true, yet the sincerity in her eyes could've fooled anybody. John Kirkland's goodbye had been, by far, the most daunting, ending up to only be stern list of prohibitions and a brief handshake. Each of his older brothers had bid him farewell in their own ungainly ways, somewhat reluctantly, whilst the younger two had just stood by patiently until they were able to wish him luck with the new school. An air of ineptness had hung over the family until he'd left, taking a quick detour towards the stables to throw his arms around Crumpet's neck for one last time and collect his guitar from its home nestled into the confines of silage. That alone had been enough to render him despondent for the rest of the journey; the misunderstanding in the mare's eyes as she sensed his sadness and nuzzled his chest, seeking answers and the loud whinny that she had screeched as he'd turned his back on the stone structure and walked across the field towards Chard.

The walk to the usual stop where he'd catch the school bus had been long and tedious, following the well-worn path spindling downwards through the hills and valleys, and eventually cutting through the forest. Whereas the trees had been in full bloom the last time he'd set foot there, emerald leaves blossoming on the branches up high, twisting and turning in the summertime winds, this time they'd looked so much older, with thin limbs boasting clusters of crinkly brown foliage. The bark had been worn and dull, long gashes ripped downwards as though a grotesque beast of some sort had dragged talons through the trunks of every tree. It hadn't rained much throughout the course of the month, hence why the vegetation littering the floor had crunched with each footstep Arthur had taken, leaves of deep auburn, golden and burgundy curling up and touching the sides of his shoes and cracking down the middle.

Sure enough, following a brief wait, a desolate bus to the town had pulled up, it's doors folding open with a sigh. After spending twenty minutes staring absently out of the window, he'd arrived in the town centre where he had caught another bus, more suited to long distance travel that wound north-eastwards to Bristol. And after sitting for just under half an hour on said vehicle, he was already sporting a mild headache and was displeased with the majority of the public. Somewhere, towards the back, was a gaggle of young woman discussing various feminine matters that he did not care in the least about with voices so uproariously loud that they could probably be heard all of the way in London. He furrowed his brows and just sunk deeper into his chosen novel for the journey – '_War and Peace_' by Leo Tolstoy, which counted as history, he guessed, since it was set during the Napoleonic Wars – choosing to completely detach himself in the pages.

Reading never failed to extinguish his worries and fears, which is why he indulged himself in books so much. It didn't particularly matter which book he read, as long as it was something with a decent plan and respectable descriptions, for there was something immensely satisfying allowing one's mind to become a chant that echoed the essence of the story completely, constantly shifting and changing to the flow of the plot. Each word embedded itself in Arthur's subconscious, creating a mantra of sorts and rolling onwards at different lengths. Each sentence became an atmosphere, a setting, whether it was a dull undertone of melancholy or a barren winter wasteland that offered nothing but dry, power-snow and the promise of death. And every book became a world beyond reality, somewhere new (or sometimes old) to escape to. Sometimes the world was better than actuality. Other times it wasn't. But it was always – _always _– a haven of its own where one could lose themself for all eternity.

The seat dipped slightly, and Arthur glanced upwards, his novel-induced intonation shattered as he glared at the offender. A man, looking well past his sixtieth year, with wrinkled flesh and skin so papery thin that it was too easy to see the web of veins and the shape of bones beneath. For someone so old and frail, the teen had to wonder why on Earth he wasn't sitting closer to the front of the bus, yet when he looked, he saw that he couldn't. In the time that he'd been following the tales of some Russian aristocrats, most of the seats had been claimed by groups and couples who chatted mirthfully as if nobody else in the world could hear them. Arthur's wristwatch read that a half hour had passed. _How times flies…_he thought sullenly. If he wasn't careful, he might end up in bloody Cardiff by accident.

Though he wasn't too pleased at having to share his double-seat space with somebody else, he could hardly snap at the geezer to get up and sit somewhere else. He wasn't _that _cold. Suddenly bored with the tone that the book followed along, and unwillingly to allow himself to slip across the Channel without being aware of it, Arthur propped himself up on one elbow and stared out of the window. The bus was stopping more frequently, no doubt to drop people off at different points and pick up others to take into Wales. All sorts were boarding, though he couldn't give a damn about them. In fact, it was starting to infuriate him again, the constant halting. The outskirts of Bristol weren't really much to look at; just houses, after houses, after houses…

Despite living in the countryside for most of his life, Arthur had been to many, many cities, including London on numerous occasions. On good days when he was chipper and not-so socially reluctant, he had rather enjoyed wandering around Trafalgar Square and admiring the intricate confines of Westminster Abbey. But on bad days, he loathed everyone who came within three inches of him, which was basically everybody on the tube and half of the people on the streets. When he'd been younger, he recalled the weekend breaks his family and he would take, as a treat, to walk the winding streets of England's capital. Once, they had even decided to go on the London Eye, though Arthur hadn't enjoyed that very much. He had been just past eleven years old and the whole family had squashed into one stall, waiting patiently for the oversized wheel to carry them upwards so they could stare down at the Thames, a blue artery that slinked in between skyscrapers and apartment blocks. Peter had wailed and cried, clinging onto the ever-nonchalant Dylan as fat tears had streamed down his cheeks. Cillian had complained and spent the duration of the ride scowling irritably, though the glimmers of humour behind his eyes had not gone unnoticed, whilst Allistor had tried to quell the anxious Connor by grasping his hand. And Arthur had just sat there, trying his absolute hardest not to scream, not out of fear or excitement – moreso frustration.

He was fairly sure that he wouldn't be going on that attraction again. It was expensive, as most of London was anyway, and the Brit would've been uncomfortable going up that high. He wasn't scared of heights, of course not! They just unnerved him. He could climb an oak tree well enough, even when he was bat-shit drunk. Ah, he would miss that oak tree, just like he would miss his nightly raids. Yet, he wouldn't miss his drunk-buddy companions, nor would he wish for his family's company. In fact, that probably ranked at around number ten of the things that he desired least.

The bus rolled to yet another standstill, the engine vibrating the whole of the back half. The world outside was mainly grey from the pavement, but the bursts of colour from several buildings proved that they were getting close to the town centre and also alerted Arthur that he should be disembarking soon so that he could get something to eat for lunch (his stomach was starting to feel a little bit empty) and catch his train. After shoving '_War and Peace_' back into his hand luggage, and rootling around until he located his all-important train ticket, he began to muse listlessly. It seemed that others were stirring in their seats as well, preparing to get off and continue on their own journeys. That fact didn't particularly faze Arthur. Whether he was the only person departing or not, he simply did not care.

"Excuse me," he muttered to the elderly man and, without waiting for an answer, he slid past him, trying not to smack him with his satchel. He would have to make a note to try and purchase a mobile music device, such as an iPod when he had some spare time. He enjoyed reading, yes, but doing so whilst sitting in a moving vehicle full of hot breath from people talking excessively gave him a headache. Besides, it wasn't like he could boom his favourite tunes from his laptop whilst on public transport, partly because it was rude and inconsiderate, but also because…oh yeah, _there was never any internet_. The teen found himself wedged between two monstrously tall men upon emerging into the isle. It was times like these that he sourly wished he was just that _little _bit taller, just so that he did feel so compressed. Claustrophobia wasn't that big of a deal to him, but he could feel his guitar getting crushed into his back. Perhaps he should've asked the driver to put it in the hold with his wheeled suitcase…then again, there was no way he was getting separated from one of his most prized items.

The fresh air was sweet and clear after spending so much time in a cramped space. Arthur hoped that the train would boast a larger area of breathing space. He nodded to the driver after he was handed his suitcase and started to trundle down the main street. The amount of beings bustling about was few, yet the restaurants were packed to the brim, as expected since it was just past two o'clock. As he weaved his way in and out, following signs hacked into walls and strung on streetlights that pointed towards the train station. The whole concept of leaving was enthralling to him, but truthfully, he was not looking forward to the long haul train journey that would take him from one corner of England to the other. Arthur just wanted to arrive at the boarding school already so that he could unpack and just get settled. The views from the train wouldn't enlighten or inspire him – he saw enough countryside from his bedroom window.

Carrying only ten pounds, in the form of loose change in his pocket, he decided that he would just buy a sandwich and some bottled water for the train since most of the cafes were either too closely crammed for comfort or much too expensive for his budget. He wasn't really _that _hungry anyway, so something small would easily suffice. The remaining walk must've been a blur, for the next thing he knew, he was inside the station, the tips of his fingers hovering over a collection of silver buttons on a vending machine. His chosen food was propelled forwards by the metal wires, and dropped to the bottom with a thump, and he collected the items with a frown, as though he was unhappy with his selection, before moving on to check the timetables. As expected, his ride wasn't due to arrive for about twenty minutes, so he just flumped himself down in a (stingy) teashop, refrained from ordering himself an Earl Grey as it looked very distasteful, and began to pick at his snack.

The wholemeal bread was cold to touch, and Arthur guessed that the ham inside was roughly the same temperature. His lips started to pull downwards into a scowl. He wondered whether he should've bought something hot instead, but knew it would be a waste to throw it in the bin now, so he ate it anyway. Lacking taste, his meal was less than satisfactory – what had he expected from a vending machine? – and the absence of butter made the dough unbearably dry. It was then that that he was immensely glad for the water he had bought, though the sheer iciness in and outside the bottle was enough to make his throat and fingers freeze. Overall, a bland and uninteresting lunch that he wouldn't leap at the chance to eat again.

The remaining five minutes were just spent digging around for the documents that would grant him access to the carriage he was supposed to settle in and glancing at the orange, pixelated letters flashing on the digital agenda screen every couple of seconds. There wasn't anything to think about or do in that time, and it wasn't as though Arthur desperately needed to buy anything else, so he just sat in silence, a bored look plastered on his face. Finally, after what seemed like years of time dragging past at an unbearably slow pace, a large train started to squeal as it rolled into the station. It was obviously something built for long distance travel from the luxury seats, curtained windows and slick shape, the front tapering to a rounded point so that it was streamlined.

Arthur was already on his feet when it slid to a stop, the tracks screeching bloody murder as, who he assumed was a conductor, leapt out from one of the compartments and waved his hand around for people to present their tickets to him. Unsurprisingly, the Brit was one of the first in line. It didn't seem that there were many people commuting from Bristol to York, though the train was already fairly busy looking through the windows. The inspector was a thin man with a scraggly beard to hide his loose chin and even looser mouth, with glassy eyes that blinked too much. He seemed to eye Arthur more than the train ticket, frowning as though he was unsure whether he should let him board, not because his documents were invalid or inacceptable, but because he didn't look as though he _should _be on the vehicle at all. Eventually, he let him pass and step inside.

For a brief second, Arthur hovered in mid-air, one foot jumping upwards from the platform whilst the other stretched out in front of him towards the metal floor of the train. For a brief second, contemplation flashed through his mind; _is this what I want? To leave home in search of bigger, greener pastures? To leave behind everything that I have ever known? _He touched down, his dubious thoughts instantly dispelled as he secured his place upon the road to freedom. This was exactly what he wanted, no more, no less. The scent of fumes rising up from the clanking engines below was sweet and sultry at the same time, almost pleasant. Arthur glanced down the aisle at all of the full booths, and deduced that he didn't want to sit in that carriage afore swinging open the door to the next and checking the availability of seating there. To his dismay, most of the chairs were taken, so he continued, squeezing in between the spaces whilst tugging his case, guitar, hand luggage and laptop with him. It was strenuous, but worth it, he realised, since he'd need every single item that he'd packed for his new education.

After a full two minutes had passed, and the doors had slammed shut, barring his only way out, he chanced upon an empty booth towards the back of the train. Four seats, all clustered around a rounded square table provided a sizeable amount of space for him to read, sleep or do whatever he pleased without the worry of disturbing somebody else. Happy with the outcome, Arthur nabbed it before anybody else could by gently laying his beloved guitar case on the chair that he had hopes of claiming and started to push his suitcase up into an overhead compartment. By the time he'd settled, plonking his arse down, the train was in motion, gradually picking up speed as it hurtled down the track. Of course there would be some other stops at other towns to drop off and pick up others, but he was particularly fussed about them. As long the vehicle didn't get too crowded, Arthur would be perfectly fine.

The motors whizzed, audible throughout the train, and it started to groan, as though it were straining to pump itself faster. The floor creaked and windows rattled, grey, urban streets passing by. As stated before, there was nothing interesting about Bristol's roads to the Brit, nor was the English countryside a fascinating substitute, for he saw it every day in all its glory, so he paid no heed to the view outside and just went back to his book. Since a train never had to halt for the traffic, and each turn was smoother than on a bus, Arthur didn't feel quite so nauseous whilst reading, which proved to be a very good thing as he could scan through a substantial number of words in a short space of time. However, the reason behind why he was flicking through the pages at a million miles per hour probably wasn't down to his impeccable reading ability. His mind was beginning to wander, confirmed by the dreamy glaze to his eyes. Truthfully, instead of fretting over his favourite character's fate in the depths of the intricate plot that Leo Tolstoy had woven, was thinking ahead about much more modern things.

According to Hetalia Cross College's website, which he had practically read over a billion times, it sat close to the border with Northumberland, which was, in turn, right next to Scotland. In fact, _very _close. Though it was in a rather remote area, among hills and dales, valleys and streams, forests and meadows, places like Edinburgh, Glasgow, Carlisle and especially Newcastle were within day-trip distance. Though he wouldn't be so happy to be close to his full-of-shit brother, Allistor, he doubted that he would ever have the misfortune to meet him if he ever did decide to pop into Scotland's capital for a day or two. Perhaps he could buy some tweed. He had the money for it, definitely, whether he'd swindled it from under his siblings' noses, been granted it by his oh-so-lovely (_cough_) parents or saved it up from eons and eons ago, he had a crapload of cash to spend how he pleased, all bottled up, nice and safe, in his bank account. As long as he didn't misplace his wallet and card details, he would be fine.

Tweed, as he knew, was an expensive material costing over one hundred pounds per item of clothing, but very durable. His father owned tweed – suits, waistcoats, even _trousers_. It wasn't say, the most_ attractive _of fabrics, yet when fitted and coloured correctly, it made for very dashing, gentlemanly attire. Arthur didn't particularly count himself as a gentleman (yet), what with all of the illegal activities that he indulged himself in after dark, but he could still try and be a civil human being. Gentlemen were allowed to drink and smoke, just as any other members of the public were. They weren't limited to walking around with metal canes slung under their arms and handkerchiefs stuffed into their pockets, nor were they required to own and wear monocles. Although, all of those things were definitely contributing factors.

On the subject of clothing, he had to admit that he probably wouldn't wear tweed anywhere other than a fancy night out at a top-notch restaurant. And why would he ever want to go on a fancy night out at a top-notch restaurant when he could enjoy himself much more in the company of a strong, refreshing beer and a sweet ciggy? Denim and cotton suited him just as well, if not better...now he was starting to sound like an addict. That would have to be rectified, Arthur decided, before he got himself caught up in a swirl of debt and delightful lung and liver conditions.

The train rumbled to a stop again, presumably in Gloucester. Arthur didn't care enough to check. Wherever they were, it wasn't York yet. The Bruit just continued to read, too bored to do anything else lest he wanted to just stare aimlessly out of the window at familiar landscapes and lose himself in thoughts about boarding school. He'd pondered far too much on the subject already though, and he feared that if he dared to let his mind wander down those corridors again that his brain would sizzle and shrivel into nothing.

"Excuse me."

Since the train was starting to groan into movement, Arthur hadn't really expected anybody to be speaking, and the voice itself was so quiet that he would not have noticed it had he not spotted a sudden flash of bright colour in the corner of his vision. When he looked to his right, he found himself staring at three vividly clad teens. He could not tell who had spoken, yet they all looked expectantly towards him, as though they were waiting for a response. One stood more forward than the other, more prominent in his crimson red garb, which looked like some sort of a whimsical robe, complimented by a pair of simple jeans. His skin was the same colour of parchment, his nose and face as flat as his posture was elevated, though he was rather small himself. Despite looking like he was no more than eighteen, his expression seemed as solemn as a man of sixty and his eyes were filled with their own department of mysteries. Incalculable puddles of sadness, the distance between them and Arthur's own gaze was a mixture of both misery and questioning. The stranger did not seem to be a particularly despondent being, just discreetly challenged by his own discreet mystery.

Beside him, and dressed not nearly as ceremoniously, was a younger teen still, with a mop of swept-back brunette hair and a pair of equally dark eyes, but not so foreboding. They were quite the contrary actually, alive with untamed energy and light that could've been birthed from a billion-and-one fireflies. Clad in an off-white jumper with sleeves so long that they hung off the edge of his hands so that only his fingertips and thumb was visible and some ripped, baggy jeans, he looked out of place compared to his two companions. The zeal in his eyes reminded Arthur of somebody he knew…_oh shit, not that damned Yank again. _He should not, could not, and _would not _think about Alfred F. Jones for the remainder of his educational "holiday" – no, scratch that – the rest of his _life_. It was bad enough that he'd actually decided to shove the idiot's stupid jacket into his suitcase, mostly because he didn't want his mother to go probing around his room (which, thankfully, he had decided to purge of all the empty cans, bottles and cigarette boxes) and ask him where he'd gotten the bloody thing from, why it was too big for him and why it was so dirty. No, he hadn't thought to wash it, nor did he ever want to.

All thoughts of the American aside, Arthur's eyes flickered to the final member of the trio, a petite boy with eyes too big for his forehead and too murky for his complexion and a bowl-like haircut. Deft fingers clutched a briefcase, his arms hidden by a baggy shirt which in turn was overshadowed by a navy jumper-vest. Dressed formally, the Brit himself had to wonder what he was doing a train headed to York, via a couple of other townships and cities, and _why _exactly he was in such apparel as he looked quite young. Well, he could talk. He was often seen in similar clothing when bustling around the house, so it wasn't as though he could complain. All of them had similar facial structures, leaving him to wonder whether they were related, yet there were some very distinguish features that the latter two and the previous did not.

Either Arthur was unwilling to reply or he had not quite caught the question that had been asked as he'd been staring dumbly at the newcomers, but he did not say anything. Eventually, the one with the briefcase offered his voice up again.

"Uhm…there are no other seats in the carriage. May we sit here?"

Like his deportment, his voice was also slight and he had the slimmest of accents that merged his vowels together in the queerest of ways, though it was barely detectable. But Arthur, trained in the fine arts of proper linguistics by his own mother, could pick up quirks in an accent quite well. He may have been wrong, but something told him that this person wasn't native to Britain, and that wasn't just down to the fact that he didn't look Caucasian either.

He was reluctant to give up his perfect little space, however he knew better than to be rude and just shrug them off. Following a hasty scan of the carriage that did indeed confirm that every other seat was taken, he could only frown. The trio didn't look _that _bad. He guessed he could survive sitting next to them for the next five hours of the trip. His fury at the public had started to die down a little bit, just enough to let himself be lenient.

"Yes, yes, of course," Arthur finally replied, scooting over towards the window to reinforce his statement.

"Thank you."

That time, the tallest of the trio in the scarlet robe spoke, and it was he who settled in the seat beside the Englishman, leaving the other two to shimmy into the other side of the booth, squashed by the table placed in between. The silence that settled was rather awkward, a sheet of quiet that muffled all sound produced, until it was like people were scarcely breathing. Arthur didn't dare to separate his gaze from the words on his page. The hum of the engine was deafening, the only voices heard from the booths in front and behind theirs. He was barely concentrating on the plotline at all. He didn't like this sudden proximity; it had caught him off-guard and there was something…_off _about it. After ages of limited noise, somebody spoke.

The words were a slur of a different language entirely, chock full of odd, wonderful sounds and a mangle of vowels hanging off of each other. Immediately, he looked up, his attention directed at the speaker. It was the less formally dressed, nudging a severe looking youth who sat across the aisle in a two-seat space. His voice was loud, yet thin, as though he were talking through a trumpet, for it bellowed outwards only when it reached its target. The language he spoke suited him well, he thought subconsciously, for it seemed that every word was shaped to his mouth and demeanour perfectly. In spite of its natural flow and optimism, Arthur definitely wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of his speech.

The boy's object of attention glared irately at him whilst an attractive young girl beside him startled to giggle, her laugh teetering dangerously on breaking the highest octave. Then, she responded, her dialect peeling easily off of her tongue and Arthur found that he still couldn't distinguish which language they were speaking in. Their antics were starting to draw attention from the other passenger's as well, and ultimately, the small cluster of chattering teens were silenced by a sharp string of words from the Brit's neighbour's mouth. He had a surprisingly harsh dialect, making him sound probably thrice his real age.

"I am sorry," said the boy sat opposite Arthur, clutching the hem of his shirt sleeves nervously. It was only when he realised that this one was talking in English that he understood the apology was directed towards him. The blond remained impassive for a few seconds, the sentence running through his head several times before his expression changed to one of complete confusion.

"Er…pardon?" he asked, furrowing his brows.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his face betraying virtually no emotion. This time, however, he gestured towards the boy next to him. "For their audacity. My brother can be very loud. Thank you."

_First he apologises…then he thanks me!? _Arthur just stared, however rude it was, at the stranger as though he was mad.

"It is…er –" He faltered, unsure of how exactly to react to the statement. "It is…quite alright. I don't mind."

"I am Honda Kiku, but please call me Kiku."

If Arthur hadn't been surprised before, he was surprised now, eyeing the hand outstretched towards him with distrusted bafflement. Each finger was pale and long, with elegant, yet untrimmed, nails reaching forwards for acceptance. There was no reason for this person to tell of his name, but he did regardless, and offered a polite smile as well as a handshake. _Such odd behaviour. _

"Ehm…" the Brit began, reaching forward tentatively. "Arthur. I'm Arthur Kirkland." Once again, the sudden introduction brought back memories of another odd encounter back on the country roads outside Chard when the moon had hung in the sky…he angrily pushed the memory of Alfred's arrogant grin to the back of his mind.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Kirkland-san."

_Wait…what?! _Arthur stared, total bemusement taking up most of his face. Kiku's hand was cool to the touch, yet fitted loosely with his own. Their fingers were too delicate for each other, and they both appeared to have the same notion that they might break. However, much unlike the other's smooth fingers, Arthur's tips were hardened and even calloused from years of allowing them to roam over guitar strings and from pulling harshly on horses' reins whenever he when riding. A small difference, but noticeable. The contact was short, if that.

"Likewise," he responded graciously. "Please, call me Arthur." He did not understand what that final snippet had been on the end of his surname, but he decided to brush it off as just a simple slip of the tongue.  
Kiku seemed surprised for a brief second, but the sentiment was gone just as soon as it came.

"Ah, okay, Arthur-san."

There it was again. _'San?'_ Before he could question further, Kiku's alleged brother nipped in with his own sentence, yet it was not in English so Arthur did not comprehend. Instead, he just listened the jumble of strange words manifesting in the air between them. They seemed…different to how he'd spoken before, the words more focused around punitive consonants and soft vowels. They didn't sound as listless as before…in fact, angrier, though the speaker's expression did not show rage. He was smiling. After he'd finished, Kiku murmured his own sentence, bringing his brother's attention to Arthur. He instantly felt uncomfortable, feeling the eyes of both the person next to him and the two others on the other side of the gangway on him. It made his skin crawl in the itchiest of ways.

"Hi!" Now he spoke in English, waving his over-sleeved hand out in front of his face as an accented gesture of melodramatic friendliness. "You've met my older brother, Kiku? He's a bit of a drag, but he's cool. I'm Yong-Soo, but just call me Yong."

His voice literally beat the air between them, its baseline so intense that Arthur could feel the atmosphere strengthen with every word that he said. "Yong" didn't offer his hand and neither did Arthur, but there was no love lost between them. He hardly even knew who he was!

"So, you're name's Arthur?" Yong-Soo continued. "Nice! Why're you going to York?"

"Yong, leave him alone," the girl who had giggled earlier piped up, leaning in front of her travel partner so that her voice flowed better across the aisle. Dark, wavy locks pooled from her scalp, thick and luscious and clipped back by a vibrant, blooming flower that was so obviously fake from its immense size. "You're so nosy!"

"What? I was just asking!"

"Yeah, well, don't." That time, the grim figure beside her spoke, his arms folded across his chest in a manner that made him look even more austere than his expression alone permitted. "It's not our business."

"Hmph." Yong flumped backwards in his seat, combing his hair with his hands. After a few moments had ticked by, clammy with an unbearably obstinate silence, even thicker than the one before, the boy grinned widely and moved his attention back to Arthur, who was struggling to understand exactly what had just happened and why a total stranger had complimented his name. His _name _of all things! "They're a bit of a drag too."

"_Hey!_"

"It's true!"

And thus a bout of arguing began, drifting in and out of English and an assortment of words from another language, or _languages_, before the red-robed stranger interrupted again with a tough scolding.

"Ugh. Yao, we're just bantering!" The girl sounded as though she were pouting, though Arthur couldn't see. For a second he thought that 'Yao' would respond in whatever language he had been speaking before, but he didn't, and instead spoke in what sounded like his own tongue of English.

"Stop! You are too loud. You talk like silly Westerner children!"

The pronunciations were mostly incorrect and bit the air, propelled forward by his tongue in a fashion that made him sound like he was always agitated by something. It almost seemed like he was trying to get all of the words out of his mouth as quickly as possible. Even though Arthur struggled to, the girl understood him well enough, for she huffed and he heard the creak of the chair as she sat backwards as far as her position would allow. _Holy shit…what the hell is going on?!_

"Arthur-san," Kiku started, his quiet speech drifting across the table. "I apologise."

The Brit frowned. "Eh…don't…don't worry about it…"

"This is my brother, Wang Yao –" he directed his speech towards the already-identified Yao, who only glared, his face permanently twisted into a scowl.

"_Step-brother,_" he correct starkly, as though he hated the concept and wanted to spit the word onto the floor and rub his heel on it. Nonetheless, Kiku continued with the extremely unyielding introductions.

"And Wang Li Xiao –" his gaze strayed to the stiff boy across who had reprimanded Yong before. The only movement of acknowledgement he made was a flicker of his tongue to speak.

"Call me Leon." That was all.

"And Wang Lin Yi Ling." Just as he finished, the only female in their odd little party peered around from Leon and waved playfully, an equally impish smile gracing her features. She was a pretty thing, with soft pigmentation and a natural essence of unripe beauty tracing along every contour of her face. Yet Arthur only nodded anxiously, unwilling to interact any more than he needed with these…these…strange, strange people. _So bloody weird. _

"Everyone calls me Mei, though."

He doubted he would've remembered her real name anyway. The elocution was difficult enough! Yao frowned, his lips curving deeply; he definitely didn't appear to be pleased with what she'd said and shot Arthur an ugly look, pretty much blaming_ him _for this mess. As if he'd asked to get involved in their bizarre conversation! Goodness, he felt so sensitive under all of their scrutiny. Even when their gazes weren't directly on him, he could still tell that they were secretly looking at him from the corners of their eyes. He shifted a little, running his left foot along his right leg. Every movement that he made was under close observation, most openly by Yao. Whenever he so much as glanced in his general direction, he could see the scathing glare scorching through the atmosphere towards him, steam and venom dripping from his eye sockets. If looks could kill…

Arthur cleared his throat, noting that Kiku was wearing a watch. That was good, at least, since he seemed to be the easiest to talk to. "Ah…" he caught his attention with the drawling stutter. "Do you have the time, by any chance?"

Kiku nodded silently, equally perturbed by the previous outbursts, and spared the two ticking wires behind the glass screen a glimpse. "Uhm, it's just past three o'clock."

_Bollocks. _It was going to be an exceptionally long journey.

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

_**A/N:**_

_Oh yeah, finally! You have no idea how long this took to write. I was getting seriously restless, wanting to get this part out of the way. I find it difficult to write from Arthur's point of view now, especially when there isn't much interaction between him and somebody else, mainly because there isn't really much to mention any more without repeating what's already been said. _

_This was written in Scotland, as were many other parts and chapters after this one. It was quite easy to get motivated since there was nothing else to do, but difficult to write because I couldn't look up facts and such on the internet. I had a wonderful holiday, staying one week in a lovely town called Moffat, near Dumfries, and the next up in Edinburgh. Oh, I'd love to go to Edinburgh for university. But it requires three As and perhaps even an A star at A level. Poo. I should probably get my GCSEs out of the way first though. Speaking of which, I probably won't be updating very consistently any more since I'll be starting my courses and most of my time will be taken up with revision and studying. If anyone does happen to notice that I'm online, such as if I'm on a forum or chatting to them via PM, tell me to get the f*ck off of the internet and do some productive work. _

_Yao is China, Kiku is Japan, Yong-Soo is South Korea (I thought about including North as well…but…well, with what's been going on in the media, I was a bit tentative), Li Xiao (Leon) is Hong Kong and Lin Yi Ling (Mei) is Taiwan. I wanted to add Vietnam, but because I have no internet, I have no means of finding out any information about what she (in my mind, she's a girl) would be like or how old she is. Basically, I got impatient. I also wanted to add Thailand, but considering Thailand was one of the only countries that wasn't colonised/influenced by European or other Asian powers, he wouldn't really be related to Kiku or Yao. That, and I'm unsure on his age too. And, since I know nothing about Macau (other than it was, and I think still is, owned by the Portuguese Empire), I couldn't include him either. Ah, this just proves how much I need the internet. Yeah, I kinda voiced that a little bit at the beginning of the chapter...hurhur...heh...heh..._

_Now for ages. Since I don't know anything about Asian history before the 1940s, feel free to correct me. Yao is 17 years old, and going into Year 13. However, since he's never done A levels before, he will be starting his AS levels, so he'll be held back a year, just like Francis. Kiku is 16 years old and the same age as Arthur, just starting is AS levels. Both Leon and Yong are 15 years old, and in Year 11, yet they'll both be held back a year to start their GCSE courses. Mei is 14 and in Year 10, also starting her GCSEs. _

_There we have it! The whole step-brothers thing might be highlighted in later chapters, but it's not really relevant. By the way, the reason why I'm not writing what Yao and co. are saying when they speak in a different language like I did last chapter with Matthew and Francis, is because Arthur can't understand what they're saying. And I really don't like using Google Translate all of the time so I refrain from copying and pasting a whole conversation in French/Mandarin/Japanese (which would probably be grammatically incorrect anyway) and then having to put translations. Yao will probably slip and say words in Mandarin from time to time, but if he does, I'll probably just put it as indirect speech so that I don't majorly confuse you guys._

_A very big thank you to Marichinocherry, DawnSketchthePony, Midnight Run in the Rain, demoness of the music, PurpleLuna98 and Meikakuna for leaving reviews! It was such a wonderful surprise to check this story and see 7 reviews! I'm so happy! Thank you, thank you, thank you!  
I'm also grateful to all of you awesome people who decided to add this story to your favourites and alerts list. _

_Thanks for reading!_


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